5PECIAL 
MESSENGER 


ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SPECIAL  MESSENGER 


Works  of  Robert  W.  Chambers 


The  Special  Messenger 
The  Firing  Line 


Some  Ladies  in  Haste 
The  Younger  Set 
The  Fighting  Chance 
Cardigan 

The  Maid -at- Arms 
Lorraine 

Maids  of  Paradise 
Ashes  of  Empire 
The  Red  Republic 
The  King  in  Yellow 
A  Maker  of  Moons 
The  Tree  of  Heaven 
The     Tracer     of     Lost 
1  Persons 


The  Reckoning 

lole 

The  Conspirators 

The  Cambric  Mask 

The  Haunts  of  Men 

Outsiders 

A  Young  Man  in  a 
Hurry 

The  Mystery  of  Choice 

In  Search  of  the  Un 
known 

In  the  Quarter 

A  King  and  a  Few 
Dukes 


For  Children 


Garden-Land 

Forest-Land 

River-Land 


Mountain-Land 

Orchard-Land 

Outdoorland 


Daintily  her  handsome  horse  set  foot  in  the  water.' 

[Page  131.] 


o        —  o 


SPECIAL 


o        —  o 


MESSENGER 

By  ROBERT   W.    CHAMBERS 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW   YORK  MCMIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
ROBERT   W.    CHAMBERS 


Copyright,  1904,  1905,  by  Harper  and  Brothers 
Copyright,  1908,  by  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son 


Copyright,  1908,  by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company 


Fublislied,  March,  190V 


P5 


TO 
GEORGE    F.   D.  TRASK 

IN    MEMORY    OF 

OUR   FIRST    MARTIAL   EXPLOITS 
IN   THE    NURSERY 


1524 ret 


Thou  hast  given  a  banner  to  them  that 
fear  Thee,  that  it  may  be  displayed  because 
of  the  truth. — PSALM  Ix,  4. 


PREFACE 


IN  the  personality  and  exploits  of  the 
"  Special  Messenger,"  the  author  has  been 
assured  that  a  celebrated  historical  character 
is  recognizable — Miss  Boyd,  the  famous  Con 
federate  scout  and  spy. 

It  is  not  uncommon  that  the  readers  of  a 
book  know  more  about  that  book  than  the 

author. 

R.  W.  C. 


CONTENTS 


PART    ONE 
WHAT  SHE  WAS 

PAGE 
I. — NONCOMBATANTS  .  ...  .  .  3 

PART   TWO 

WHAT   SHE   BECAME 

II. — SPECIAL  MESSENGER  .  .  .  .39 

III. — ABSOLUTION  .  .  .  .  '  .  .67 

IV. — ROMANCE  .  .  .  ...  on 

V. — RED  FERRY  .  .  .  .  .  I2y 

VI. — AN  AIR  LINE  .  .  .  .  .  .157 


VII.— THE  PASS 


192 


VIII. — EVER  AFTER       .        .        .        .  .    223 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

'  Daintily  her   handsome  horse  set  foot   in   the 

water".  .  .  .  •  Frontispiece 

'  'They  seem  to  be  allfired  sure  of  us ' "  .         .       78 

'Then,   like  a  flash    his    hand    fell    to    his    hol 
ster,  and  it  was  empty "     .         .         .         .90 

''Turn  around,'  said  the  Special  Messenger".     176 

'  She    dropped    her   sunbonnet — stooped    to    re 
cover  it "  .         .         .         .         .         .     216 

'  White-faced,  desperate,  she  clung  to  him  with 

the  tenacity  of  a  lynx"       .         ...         .     220 

'  '  We    was    there — I   know    that ;    yes,    an'    we 

had  a  fight '  " 238 

''Yes,'  she    gasped,   'the    Special    Messenger — 

noncombatant ! '"          ...         -          .         .     258 


PART  ONE 
WHAT  SHE   WAS 


NONCOMBATANTS 

BOUT  five  o'clock  that  evening 
a  Rhode  Island  battery  clanked 
through  the  village  and  parked 
six  dusty  guns  in  a  pasture  oc 
cupied  by  some  astonished  cows. 
A  little  later  the  cavalry  arrived,  riding  slow 
ly  up  the  tree-shaded  street,  escorted  by  every 
darky  and  every  dog  in  the  country-side. 

The  clothing  of  this  regiment  was  a  little 
out  of  the  ordinary.    Instead  of  the  usual  cam 
paign   head   gear  the   troopers   wore    forage 
caps  strapped  under  their  chins,  heavy  visors 
2  3 


Special  Messenger 


turned  down,  and  their  officers  were  conspicu 
ous  in  fur-trimmed  hussar  tunics  slung  from 
the  shoulders  of  dark-blue  shell  jackets;  but 
most  unusual  and  most  interesting  of  all,  a 
mounted  cavalry  band  rode  ahead,  led  by  a 
bandmaster  who  sat  his  horse  like  a  colonel 
of  regulars — a  slim  young  man  with  consid 
erable  yellow  and  gold  on  his  faded  blue 
sleeves,  and  an  easy  manner  of  swinging  for 
ward  his  heavy  cut-and-thrust  sabre  as  he 
guided  the  column  through  the  metropolitan 
labyrinths  of  Sandy  River. 

Sandy  River  had  seen  and  scowled  at  Yan 
kee  cavalry  before,  but  never  before  had  the 
inhabitants  had  an  opportunity  to  ignore  a 
mounted  band  and  bandmaster.  There  was, 
of  course,  no  cheering;  a  handkerchief  flut 
tered  from  a  gallery  here  and  there,  but 
Sandy  River  was  loyal  only  in  spots,  and  the 
cavalry  pressed  past  groups  of  silent  people, 
encountering  the  averted  heads  or  scornful 
eyes  of  young  girls  and  the  cold  hatred  in 
the  faces  of  gray-haired  gentlewomen,  who 
turned  their  backs  as  the  ragged  guidons 
bobbed  past  and  the  village  street  rang  with 
the  clink-clank  of  scabbards  and  rattle  of 
Spencer  carbines. 


Noncombatants 


But  there  was  a  small  boy  on  a  pony  who 
sat  entranced  as  the  weather-ravaged  squad 
rons  trampled  by.  Cap  in  hand,  straight  in 
his  saddle,  he  saluted  the  passing  flag;  a  sun 
burnt  trooper  called  out :  "  That's  right,  son ! 
Bully  for  you !  " 

The  boy  turned  his  pony  and  raced  along 
the  column  under  a  running  fire  of  approv 
ing  chaff  from  the  men,  until  he  came  abreast 
of  the  bandmaster  once  more,  at  whom  he 
stared  with  fascinated  and  uncloyed  satisfac 
tion. 

Into  a  broad  common  wheeled  the  cavalry ; 
the  boy  followed  on  his  pony,  guiding  the 
little  beast  in  among  the  mounted  men,  edging 
as  close  as  possible  to  the  bandmaster,  who 
had  drawn  bridle  and  wheeled  his  showy 
horse  abreast  of  a  group  of  officers.  When 
the  boy  had  crowded  up  as  close  as  possible 
to  the  bandmaster  he  sat  in  silence,  blissfully 
drinking  in  the  splendors  of  that  warrior's 
dusty  apparel. 

"  I'm  right  glad  you-all  have  come,"  ven 
tured  the  boy. 

The  bandmaster  swung  round  in  his  saddle 
and  saw  a  small  sun-tanned  face  and  two 
wide  eyes  intently  fixed  on  his. 


Special  Messenger 


"  I  reckon  you  don't  know  how  glad  my 
sister  and  I  are  to  see  you  down  here,"  said  the 
boy  politely.  "  When  are  you  going  to  have  a 
battle?" 

"  A  battle !  "  repeated  the  bandmaster. 

"  Yes,  sir.  You're  going  to  fight,  of  course, 
aren't  you?  " 

"  Not  if  people  leave  us  alone — and  leave 
that  railroad  alone,"  replied  the  officer,  back 
ing  his  restive  horse  to  the  side  of  the  fence 
as  the  troopers  trotted  past  into  the  meadow, 
fours  crowding  closely  on  fours. 

"  Not  fight  ?  "  exclaimed  the  boy,  aston 
ished.  "Isn't  there  going  to  be  a  battle?" 

"I'll  let  you  know  when  there's  going  to 
be  one,"  said  the  bandmaster  absently. 

"You  won't  forget,  will  you?"  inquired 
the  boy.  "  My  name  is  William  Stuart  West- 
cote,  and  I  live  in  that  house."  He  pointed 
with  his  riding  whip  up  the  hill.  "  You  won't 
forget,  will  you  ?  " 

"  No,  child,  I  won't  forget." 

"  My  sister  Celia  calls  me  Billy ;  perhaps 
you  had  better  just  ask  her  for  Billy  if  I'm 
not  there  when  you  gallop  up  to  tell  me — 
that  is,  if  you're  coming  yourself.  Are 
you  ?  "  he  ended  wistfully. 


Noncoinbatants 


"  Do  you  want  me  to  come  ?  "  inquired  the 
bandmaster,  amused. 

"  Would  you  really  come  ?  "  cried  the  boy. 
"  Would  you  really  come  to  visit  me  ?  " 

"  I'll  consider  it,"  said  the  bandmaster 
gravely. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  come  to-night  ?  " 
asked  the  boy.  "  We'd  certainly  be  glad  to 
see  you — my  sister  and  I.  Folks  around  here 
like  the  Malletts  and  the  Colvins  and  the 
Garnetts  don't  visit  us  any  more,  and  it's 
lonesome  sometimes." 

"  I  think  that  you  should  ask  your  sister 
first,"  suggested  the  bandmaster. 

"  Why  ?  She's  loyal !  "  exclaimed  the  boy 
earnestly.  "  Besides,  you're  coming  to  visit 
me,  I  reckon.  Aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"   said   the  bandmaster  hastily. 

"To-night?" 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  Billy." 

The  boy  held  out  a  shy  hand;  the  officer 
bent  from  his  saddle  and  took  it  in  his  soiled 
buckskin  gauntlet. 

"  Good  night,  my  son,"  he  said,  without  a 
smile,  and  rode  off  into  the  meadow  among 
a  crowd  of  troopers  escorting  the  regimental 
wagons. 


Special  Messenger 


A  few  moments  later  a  child  on  a  pony 
tore  into  the  weed-grown  drive  leading  to 
the  great  mansion  on  the  hill,  scaring  a  lone 
darky  who  had  been  dawdling  among  the 
roses. 

"  'Clar'  tu  goodness,  Mars  Will'm,  I  done 
tuk  you  foh  de  Black  Hoss  Cav'ly !  "  said  the 
ancient  negro  reproachfully.  "  Hi !  Hi !  Wha' 
foh  you  mek  all  dat  fuss  an'  a-gwine-on?  " 

"  Oh,  Mose !  "  cried  the  boy,  "  I've  seen 
the  Yankee  cavalry,  and  they  have  a  horse 
band,  and  I  rode  with  them,  and  I  asked  a 
general  when  they  were  going  to  have  a  bat 
tle,  and  the  general  said  he'd  let  me  know !  " 

"  Gin'ral  ?  "  demanded  the  old  darky  sus 
piciously  ;  "  who  dat  gin'ral  dat  gwine  tell 
you  'bout  de  battle?  Was  he  drivin'  de  six- 
mule  team,  or  was  he  dess  a-totin'  a  sack  o' 
co'n  ?  Kin  you  splain  dat,  Mars  Will'm  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  I  know  a  general  when  I 
see  one  ?  "  exclaimed  the  boy  scornfully.  "  He 
had  yellow  and  gilt  on  his  sleeves,  and  he  car 
ried  a  sabre,  and  he  rode  first  of  all.  And — 
oh,  Mose !  He's  coming  here  to  pay  me  a  visit ! 
Perhaps  he'll  come  to-night ;  he  said  he  would 
if  he  could." 

"  Dat  gin'ral  'low  he  gwine  come  here  ?  " 


muttered  the  darky.  "  Spec'  you  better  see 
Miss  Celia  'fo'  you  ax  dis  here  gin'ral." 

"  I'm  going  to  ask  her  now,"  said  the  boy. 
"  She  certainly  will  be  glad  to  see  one  of  our 
own  men.  Who  cares  if  all  the  niggers  have 
run  off?  We're  not  ashamed — and,  anyhow, 
you're  here  to  bring  in  the  decanters  for  the 
general." 

"  Shoo,  honey,  you  might  talk  dat-a-way 
ef  yo'  pa  wuz  in  de  house,"  grumbled  the  old 
man.  "  Ef  hit's  done  fix,  nobody  kin  onfix 
it.  But  dess  yo'  leave  dem  gin'rals  whar  dey 
is  nex'  time,  Mars  Will'm.  Hit  wuz  a  gin'ral 
dat  done  tuk  de  Dominiker  hen  las'  time  de 
blueco'ts  come  to  San'  River." 

The  boy,  sitting  entranced  in  reverie, 
scarcely  heard  him;  and  it  was  only  when 
a  far  trumpet  blew  from  the  camp  in  the 
valley  that  he  started  in  his  saddle  and  raised 
his  rapt  eyes  to  the  windows.  Somebody  had 
hung  out  a  Union  flag  over  the  jasmine- 
covered  portico. 

"There  it  is!  There  it  is,  Mose!"  he 
cried  excitedly,  scrambling  from  his  saddle. 
"  Here — take  the  bridle !  And  the  very  min 
ute  you  hear  the  general  dashing  into  the 
drive,  let  me  know !  " 


io  Special  Messenger 

He  ran  jingling  up  the  resounding  veranda 
— he  wore  his  father's  spurs — and  mounted 
the  stairs,  two  at  a  jump,  calling:  "Celia! 
Celia !  You'll  be  glad  to  know  that  a  general 
who  is  a  friend  of  mine " 

"  Hush,  Billy,"  said  his  sister,  checking  him 
on  the  landing  and  leading  him  out  to  the 
gallery  from  which  the  flag  hung ;  "  can't  you 
remember  that  grandfather  is  asleep  by  sun 
down?  Now — what  is  it,  dear,  you  wish  to 
tell  me?" 

"Oh,  I  forgot;  truly  I  did,  Celia— but  a 
general  is  coming  to  visit  me  to-night,  if  you 
can  possibly  manage  it,  and  I'm  so  glad  you 
hung  out  the  flag — and  Moses  can  serve  the 
Madeira,  can't  he  ?  " 

"  What  general  ?  "  inquired  his  sister  un 
easily.  And  her  brother's  explanations  made 
matters  no  clearer.  "  You  remember  what 
the  Yankee  cavalry  did  before,"  she  said  anx 
iously.  "  You  must  be  careful,  Billy,  now 
that  the  quarters  are  empty  and  there's  not 
a  soul  in  the  place  except  Mose." 

"  But,  Celia !  the  general  is  a  gentleman. 
I  shook  hands  with  him !  " 

"  Very  well,  dear,"  she  said,  passing  one 
arm  around  his  neck  and  leaning  forward 


Noncombatants  n 

over  the  flag.  The  sun  was  dipping  between 
a  cleft  in  the  hills,  flinging  out  long  rosy 
beams  across  the  misty  valley.  The  mocking 
birds  had  ceased,  but  a  thrasher  was  singing 
in  a  tangle  of  Cherokee  roses  under  the  west 
ern  windows. 

While  they  stood  there  the  sun  dipped  so 
low  that  nothing  remained  except  a  glowing 
scarlet  rim. 

"  Hark !  "  whispered  the  boy.  Far  away 
an  evening  gunshot  set  soft  echoes  tumbling 
from  hill  to  hill,  distant,  more  distant.  Strains 
of  the  cavalry  band  rose  in  the  evening  silence, 
"  The  Star  Spangled  Banner  "  floating  from 
the  darkening  valley.  Then  silence ;  and  pres 
ently  a  low,  sweet  thrush  note  from  the  dusky 
garden. 

It  was  after  supper,  when  the  old  darky 
had  lighted  the  dips — there  being  no  longer 
any  oil  or  candles  to  be  had — that  the  thrush, 
who  had  been  going  into  interminable  ecsta 
sies  of  fluty  trills,  suddenly  became  mute. 
A  jingle  of  metal  sounded  from  the  garden, 
a  step  on  the  porch,  a  voice  inquiring  for  Mr. 
Westcote ;  and  old  Mose  replying  with  re 
proachful  dignity:  "Mars  Wes'cote,  suh? 
Mars  Wes'cote  daid,  suh." 


12  Special  Messenger 

"  That's  my  friend,  the  general !  "  exclaimed 
Billy,  leaping  from  his  chair.  "  Mose,  you 
fool  nigger,  why  don't  you  ask  the  general 
to  come  in  ? "  he  whispered  fiercely ;  then, 
as  befitted  the  master  of  the  house,  he  walked 
straight  out  into  the  hall,  small  hand  out 
stretched,  welcoming  his  guest  as  he  had  seen 
his  father  receive  a  stranger  of  distinction. 
"  I  am  so  glad  you  came,"  he  said,  crimson 
with  pleasure.  "  Moses  will  take  your  cap 
and  cloak —  Mose !  " 

The  old  servant  shuffled  forward,  much 
impressed  by  the  uniform  revealed  as  the 
long  blue  mantle  fell  across  his  own  ragged 
sleeve. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  came,  Billy  ?  "  asked 
the  bandmaster,  smiling. 

"  I  reckon  it  was  because  you  promised  to, 
wasn't  it  ?  "  inquired  the  child. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  bandmaster  hastily. 
"  And  I  promised  to  come  because  I  have  a 
brother  about  your  age — 'way  up  in  New 
York.  Shall  we  sit  here  on  the  veranda  and 
talk  about  him  ?  " 

"  First,"  said  the  boy  gravely,  "  my  sister 
Celia  will  receive  you." 

He  turned,  leading  the  way  to  the  parlor 


Noncombatants  13 

with  inherited  self-possession ;  and  there, 
through  the  wavering  light  of  a  tallow  dip, 
the  bandmaster  saw  a  young  girl  in  black 
rising  from  a  chair  by  the  center  table ;  and 
he  brought  his  spurred  heels  together  and 
bowed  his  very  best  bow. 

"  My  brother,"  she  said,  "  has  been  so  anx 
ious  to  bring  one  of  our  officers  here.  Two 
weeks  ago  the  Yan — the  Federal  cavalry 
passed  through,  chasing  Carrington's  Horse 
out  of  Oxley  Court  House,  but  there  was 
no  halt  here."  She  resumed  her  seat  with  a 
gesture  toward  a  chair  opposite ;  the  band 
master  bowed  again  and  seated  himself, 
placing  his  sabre  between  his  knees. 

"  Our  cavalry  advance  did  not  behave  very 
well  in  Oxley,"  he  said. 

"  They  took  a  few  chickens  en  passant" 
she  said,  smiling;  "but  had  they  asked  for 
them  we  would  have  been  glad  to  give.  We 
are  loyal,  you  know." 

"  Those  gay  jayhawkers  were  well  disci 
plined  for  that  business  when  Stannard  took 
them  over,"  said  the  bandmaster  grimly. 
"  Had  they  behaved  themselves,  we  should 
have  had  ten  friends  here  where  we  have 
one  now." 


14  Special  Messenger 

The  boy  listened  earnestly.  "  Would  you 
please  tell  me,"  he  asked,  "  whether  you  have 
decided  to  have  a  battle  pretty  soon  ?  " 

"  I  don't  decide  such  matters,"  said  the 
bandmaster,  laughing. 

"  Why,  I  thought  a  general  could  always 
have  a  battle  when  he  wanted  to !  "  insisted 
the  boy,  surprised. 

"  But  I'm  not  a  general,  Billy,"  replied  the 
young  fellow,  coloring.  "  Did  you  think  I 
was?" 

"  My  brother's  ideas  are  very  vague,"  said 
his  sister  quickly ;  "  any  officer  who  fights  is 
a  general  to  him." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  bandmaster,  looking 
at  the  child,  "  but  do  you  know,  I  am  not 
even  a  fighting  officer?  I  am  only  the  regi 
mental  bandmaster,  Billy — a  noncombatant." 

For  an  instant  the  boy's  astonished  disap 
pointment  crushed  out  his  inbred  courtesy  as 
host.  His  sister,  mortified  but  self-possessed, 
broke  the  strained  silence  with  a  quiet  ques 
tion  or  two  concerning  the  newly  arrived 
troops;  and  the  bandmaster  replied,  looking 
at  the  boy. 

Billy,  silent,  immersed  in  reflection,  sat 
with  curly  head  bent  and  hands  folded  on 


Noncombatants  15 

his  knees.  His  sister  glanced  at  him,  looked 
furtively  at  the  bandmaster,  and  their  eyes 
met.  He  smiled,  and  she  returned  the  smile; 
and  he  looked  at  Billy  and  smiled  again. 

"  Billy,"  he  said,  "  I've  been  sailing  under 
false  colors,  it  seems — but  you  hoisted  them. 
I  think  I  ought  to  go." 

The  boy  looked  up  at  him,  startled. 

"  Good  night,"  said  the  bandmaster  grave 
ly,  rising  to  his  lean  height  from  the  chair 
beside  the  table.  The  boy  flushed  to  his 
hair. 

"  Don't  go,"  he  said ;  "  I  like  you  even  if 
you  don't  fight !  " 

Then  the  bandmaster  began  to  laugh,  and 
the  boy's  sister  bit  her  lip  and  looked  at  her 
brother. 

"  Billy !  Billy !  "  she  said,  catching  his 
hands  in  hers,  "  do  you  think  the  only  brave 
men  are  those  who  gallop  into  battle  ?  " 

Hands  imprisoned  in  his  sister's,  he  looked 
up  at  the  bandmaster. 

"If  you  were  ordered  to  fight,  you'd  fight, 
wouldn't  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Under  those  improbable  circumstances  I 
think  I  might,"  admitted  the  young  fellow, 
solemnly  reseating  himself. 


1 6  Special  Messenger 

"  Celia !  Do  you  hear  what  he  says  ?  "  cried 
the  boy. 

"  I  hear,"  said  his  sister  gently.  "  Now 
sit  very  still  while  Moses  serves  the  Madeira ; 
only  half  a  glass  for  Mr.  William,  Moses — 
no,  not  one  drop  more !  " 

Moses  served  the  wine  with  pomp  and  cir 
cumstance  ;  the  lean  young  bandmaster  looked 
straight  at  the  boy's  sister  and  rose,  bowing 
..with  a  grace  that  instantly  entranced  the  aged 
servant. 

"  Celia,"  said  the  boy,  "  we  must  drink  to 
the  flag,  you  know ;  "  and  the  young  girl  rose 
from  her  chair,  and,  looking  at  the  bandmas 
ter,  touched  her  lips  to  the  glass. 

"  I  wish  they  could  see  us,"  said  the  boy, 
"  — the  Colvins  and  the  Malletts.  I've  heard 
their  '  Bonnie  Blue  Flag '  and  their  stirrup 
toasts  until  I'm  sick ' 

"  Billy !  "  said  his  sister  quietly.  And  re 
seating  herself  and  turning  to  the  bandmaster, 
"  Our  neighbors  differ  with  us,"  she  said, 
"  and  my  brother  cannot  understand  it.  I 
have  to  remind  him  that  if  they  were  not 
brave  men  our  army  would  have  been  vic 
torious,  and  there  would  have  been  no  more 
war  after  Bull  Run." 


Noncombatants  17 

The  bandmaster  assented  thoughtfully.  Once 
or  twice  his  worn  eyes  swept  the  room — a 
room  that  made  him  homesick  for  his  own. 
It  had  been  a  long-  time  since  he  had  sat  in 
a  chair  in  a  room  like  this — a  long  time  since 
he  had  talked  with  women  and  children.  Per 
haps  the  boy's  sister  divined  something  of 
his  thoughts — he  was  not  much  older  than 
she — for,  as  he  rose,  hooking  up  his  sabre, 
and  stepped  forward  to  take  his  leave,  she 
stood  up,  too,  offering  her  hand. 

"  Our  house  is  always  open  to  Union  sol 
diers,"  she  said  simply.  "  Will  you  come 
again  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.  "  You  don't  know, 
I  think,  how  much  you  have  already  done 
for  me." 

They  stood  a  moment  looking  at  one  an 
other;  then  he  bowed  and  turned  to  the  boy, 
who  caught  his  hand  impulsively. 

"  I  knew  my  sister  would  like  you !  "  he 
exclaimed. 

"  Everybody  is  very  kind,"  said  the  young 
bandmaster,  looking  steadily  at  the  boy. 

Again  he  bowed  to  the  boy's  sister,  not  rais 
ing  his  eyes  this  time ;  and,  holding  the  child's 
hand  tightly  in  his,  he  walked  out  to  the  porch. 


1 8  Special  Messenger 

Moses  was  there  to  assist  him  with  his  long 
blue  mantle ;  the  boy  clung  to  his  gloved  hand 
a  moment,  then  stepped  back  into  the  door 
way,  where  the  old  servant  shuffled  about, 
muttering  half  aloud :  "  Yaas,  suh.  Done 
tole  you  so.  He  bow  lak  de  quality,  he  drink 
lak  de  Garnetts — what  I  tole  yo'?  Mars 
Will'm,  ef  dat  ossifer  ain'  er  gin'ral,  he  gwine 
be  mighty  quick !  " 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  just  love 
him." 

The  negro  shuffled  out  across  the  moonlit 
veranda,  peered  around  through  the  fragrant 
gloom,  wrinkled  hands  linked  behind  his  back. 
Then  he  descended  the  steps  stiffly,  and  teetered 
about  through  the  shrubbery  with  the  instinct 
of  a  watchdog  worn  out  in  service. 

"  Nuff'n  to  scare  nobody,  scusin'  de  hoot 
owls,"  he  muttered.  "  Spec'  hit's  time  Miss 
Celia  bolt  de  do',  'long  o'  de  sodgers  an'  all  de 
gwines-on.  Shoo !  Hear  dat  fool  chickum 
crow !  "  He  shook  his  head,  bent  rheumatically, 
and  seated  himself  on  the  veranda  step,  full 
in  the  moonlight.  "  All  de  fightin's  an'  de 
gwines-on  'long  o'  dis  here  wah !  "  he  solil 
oquized,  joining  his  shriveled  thumbs  re 
flectively.  "  Whar  de  use  ?  Spound  dat ! 


Noncombatants  ig 

Whar  all  de  fool  niggers  dat  done  skedaddle 
'long  o'  de  Linkum  troopers  ?  Splain  dat !  " 
He  chuckled;  a  whip-poor-will  answered 
breathlessly. 

"  Dar  dat  scan'lous  widder  bird  a-hol- 
lerin' ! "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  listening. 
"  'Pears  lak  we's  gwine  have  moh  wah,  moh 
daid  men,  moh  widders.  Dar  de  ha'nt!  Dar 
de  sign  an'  de  warnin'.  G'way,  widder  bird." 
He  crossed  his  withered  fingers  and  began 
rocking  to  and  fro,  crooning  softly  to  himself : 

"Butterfly  a-flyin'  in  de  Chinaberry  tree 

(Butterfly,  flutter  by!), 
Kitty  gull  a-cryin'  on  the  sunset  sea 

(Fly,  li'l  gull,  fly  high!), 
Bully  bat  a-follerin'  de  moon  in  de  sky, 
Widder  bird  a-hollerin',  'Hi,  dar!     Hi!' 

Tree  toad  a-trillin' 

(Sleep,  li'l  honey! 

De  moon  cost  a  shillin' 

But  we  ain't  got  money!), 

Sleep,  li'l  honey, 
While  de  firefly  fly, 
An'  Chuck- Will's  Widder  holler, 

'Hi,  dar!     Hi!'" 

Before  dawn  the  intense  stillness  was  broken 
by  the  rushing  music  of  the  birds — a  careless, 


20  Special  Messenger 

cheery  torrent  of  song  poured  forth  from 
bramble  and  woodland.  Distant  and  nearer 
cockcrows  rang  out  above  the  melodious 
tumult,  through  which  a  low,  confused  under 
tone,  scarcely  apparent  at  first,  was  growing 
louder — the  dull  sound  of  the  stirring  of  many 
men. 

Men?  The  valley  was  suddenly  alive  with 
them,  choking  the  roads  in  heavy  silent  lines ; 
they  were  in  the  lanes,  they  plodded  through 
the  orchards,  they  swarmed  across  the  hills, 
column  on  column,  until  the  entire  country 
seemed  flowing  forward  in  steady  streams. 
Sandy  River  awoke,  restlessly  listening ;  lights 
glimmered  behind  darkened  windows ;  a 
heavier,  vaguer  rumor  grew,  hanging  along 
the  hills.  It  increased  to  a  shaking,  throbbing 
monotone,  like  the  far  dissonance  of  summer 
thunder ! 

And  now  artillery  was  coming,  bumping 
down  the  dim  street  with  clatter  of  chain  and 
harness  jingling. 

Up  at  the  great  house  on  the  hill  they  heard 
it — the  boy  in  his  white  nightdress  leaning 
from  the  open  window,  and  his  sleepy  sister 
kneeling  beside  him,  pushing  back  her  thick 
hair  to  peer  out  into  the  morning  mist.  On 


21 


came  the  battery,  thudding  and  clanking, 
horses  on  a  long  swinging  trot,  gun,  caisson, 
forge,  mounted  artillerymen  succeeding  each 
other,  faster,  faster  under  the  windows.  A 
guidon  danced  by;  more  guns,  more  caissons, 
then  a  trampling,  plunging  gallop,  a  rattle  of 
sabres — and  the  battery  had  passed. 

"  What  is  that  heavy  sound  behind  the 
hills  ?  "  whispered  the  boy. 

"  The  river  rushing  over  the  shallows — 
perhaps  a  train  on  the  trestle  at  Oxley  Court 
House — "  She  listened,  resting  her  rounded 
chin  on  her  hands.  "  It  is  thunder,  I  think. 
Go  to  bed  now  for  a  while " 

"  Hark !  "  said  the  boy,  laying  his  small 
hand  on  hers. 

"  It  is  thunder,"  she  said  again.  "  How 
white  the  dawn  is  growing.  Listen  to  the 
birds — is  it  not  sweet  ?  " 

"  Celia,"  whispered  the  boy,  "  that  is  not 
thunder.  It  is  too  hushed,  too  steady — it  hums 
and  hums  and  hums.  Where  was  that  battery 
galloping?  I  am  going  to  dress." 

She  looked  at  him,  turned  to  the  east  and 
stared  at  the  coming  day.  The  air  of  dawn 
was  full  of  sounds,  ominous,  sustained  vibra 
tions. 


22  Special  Messenger 


She  rose,  went  back  to  her  room,  and  lighted 
a  dip.  Then,  shading  the  pallid  smoky  flame 
with  her  hand,  she  opened  a  door  and  peered 
into  the  next  bedroom.  "  Grandfather !  "  she 
whispered,  smiling,  seeing  that  he  was  already 
awake.  And  as  she  leaned  over  him,  search 
ing  the  dim  and  wrinkled  eyes,  she  read  some 
thing  in  their  unwonted  luster  that  struck  her 
silent.  It  was  only  when  she  heard  -  her 
brother's  step  on  the  stairs  that  she  roused 
herself,  bent,  and  kissed  the  aged  head  lying 
there  inert  among  the  pillows. 

"  It  is  cannon,"  she  breathed  softly — "  you 
know  that  sound,  don't  you,  grandfather? 
Does  it  make  you  happy  ?  Why  are  you  smil 
ing  ?  Look  at  me — I  understand ;  you  want 
something.  Shall  I  open  the  curtains?  And 
raise  the  window?  Ah,  you  wish  to  hear. 
Hark !  Horsemen  are  passing  at  a  gallop. 
What  is  it  you  wish — to  see  them  ?  But  they 
are  gone,  dear.  If  any  of  our  soldiers  come, 
you  shall  see  them.  That  makes  you  happy  ? — 
that  is  what  you  desire? — to  see  one  of  our 
own  soldiers?  If  they  pass,  I  shall  go  out 
and  bring  one  here  to  you — truly,  I  will." 
She  paused,  marveling  at  the  strange  light 
that  glimmered  across  the  ravaged  visage. 


Noncombatants  23 

Then  she  blew  out  the  dip  and  stole  into  the 
hall. 

"  Billy !  "  she  called,  hearing  him  fumbling 
at  the  front  door. 

"  Oh,  Celia !  The  cavalry  trumpets  !  Do 
you  hear?  I'm  going  out.  Perhaps  he  may 
pass  the  house." 

"  Wait  for  me,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  not  dressed. 
Run  to  the  cabin  and  wake  Moses,  dear ! " 

She  heard  him  open  the  door ;  the  deadened 
thunder  of  the  cannonade  filled  the  house  for 
an  instant,  shut  out  by  the  closing  door,  only 
to  swell  again  to  an  immense  unbroken  volume 
of  solemn  harmony.  The  bird-music  had 
ceased ;  distant  hilltops  grew  brighter. 

Down  in  the  village  lights  faded  from 
window  and  cabin;  a  cavalryman,  signaling 
from  the  church  tower,  whirled  his  flaming 
torch  aside  and  picked  up  a  signal  flag.  Sud 
denly  the  crash  of  a  rifled  cannon  saluted  the 
rising  sun ;  a  shell  soared  skyward  through  the 
misty  glory,  towered,  curved,  and  fell,  explod 
ing  among  the  cavalrymen,  completely  ruining 
the  breakfasts  of  chief-trumpeter  O'Halloran 
and  kettle-drummer  Pillsbury. 

For  a  moment  a  geyser  of  ashes,  coffee,  and 
bacon  rained  among  the  men. 


24  Special  Messenger 

"  Hell !  "  said  Pillsbury,  furiously  wiping 
his  face  with  his  dripping  sleeve  and  spitting 
out  ashes. 

"  Young  kettle-drums,  he  don't  love  his 
vittles,"  observed  a  trooper,  picking  up  the 
cap  that  had  been  jerked  from  his  head  by  a 
whirring  fragment. 

"  Rich  feedin'  is  the  sp'ilin'  o'  this  here  hoss 
band,"  added  the  farrier,  stanching  the  flow 
of  blood  from  his  scalp ;  "  quit  quar'lin'  with 
your  rations,  kettle-drums !  " 

"  Y'orter  swaller  them  cinders,"  insisted  an 
other  ;  "  they  don't  cost  nothin' !  " 

The  band,  accustomed  to  chaffing,  prepared 
to  retire  to  the  ambulance,  where  heretofore 
their  fate  had  always  left  them  among  luggage, 
surgeons,  and  scared  camp  niggers  during  an 
engagement. 

The  Rhode  Island  battery,  placed  just  north 
of  the  church,  had  opened ;  the  cavalry  in 
the  meadow  could  see  them — see  the  whirl  of 
smoke,  the  cannoneers  moving  with  quick 
precision  amidst  obscurity — the  flash,  the  re 
coil  as  gun  after  gun  jumped  back,  buried  in 
smoke. 

It  lasted  only  a  few  minutes ;  no  more  shells 
came  whistling  down  among  the  cavalry ;  and 


Noncombatants  25 

presently  the  battery  grew  silent,  and  the 
steaming  hill,  belted  with  vapor,  cleared  slowly 
in  the  breezy  sunshine. 

The  cavalry  had  mounted  and  leisurely  filed 
off  to  the  shelter  of  a  grassy  hollow ;  the  band, 
dismounted,  were  drawn  up  to  be  told  off  in 
squads  as  stretcher-bearers;  the  bandmaster 
was  sauntering  past,  buried  in  meditation,  his 
sabre  trailing  a  furrow  through  the  dust,  when 
a  clatter  of  hoofs  broke  out  along  the  village 
street,  and  a  general  officer,  followed  by  a 
plunging  knot  of  horsemen,  tore  up  and  drew 
bridle. 

The  colonel  of  the  cavalry  regiment,  fol 
lowed  by  the  chief  trumpeter,  trotted  out  to 
meet  them,  saluting  sharply ;  there  was  a  quick 
exchange  of  words;  the  general  officer  waved 
his  hand  toward  the  south,  wheeled  his  horse, 
hesitated,  and  pointed  at  the  band. 

"How  many  sabres?"  he  asked. 

"  Twenty-seven,"  replied  the  colonel — "  no 
carbines." 

"  Better  have  them  play  you  in — if  you 
go,"  said  the  officer. 

The  colonel  saluted  and  backed  his  horse  as 
the  cavalcade  swept  past  him ;  then  he  beckoned 
to  the  bandmaster. 


26  Special  Messenger 

"  Here's  your  chance,"  he  said.  "  Orders 
are  to  charge  anything  that  appears  on  that 
road.  You'll  play  us  in  this  time.  Mount  your 
men." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  regiment,  band  ahead, 
marched  out  of  Sandy  River  and  climbed  the 
hill,  halting  in  the  road  that  passed  the  great 
white  mansion.  As  the  outposts  moved  for 
ward  they  encountered  a  small  boy  on  a  pony, 
who  swung  his  cap  at  them  gayly  as  he  rode. 
Squads,  dismounted,  engaged  in  tearing  away 
the  rail  fences  bordering  the  highway,  looked 
around,  shouting  a  cheery  answer  to  his  ex 
cited  greeting;  the  colonel  on  a  ridge  to 
the  east  lowered  his  field  glasses  to  watch 
him;  the  bandmaster  saw  him  coming  and 
smiled  as  the  boy  drew  bridle  beside  him, 
saluting. 

"  If  you're  not  going  to  fight,  why  are  you 
here  ?  "  asked  the  boy  breathlessly. 

"  It  really  looks,"  said  the  bandmaster,  "  as 
though  we  might  fight,  after  all." 

"You,  too?" 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Then — could  you  come  into  the  house — 
just  a  moment?  My  sister  asked  me  to  find 
you." 


Noncombatants  27 

A  bright  blush  crept  over  the  bandmaster's 
sun-tanned  cheeks. 

"  With  pleasure,"  he  said,  dismounting,  and 
leading  his  horse  through  the  gateway  and 
across  the  shrubbery  to  the  trees. 

"  Celia !  Celia !  "  called  the  boy,  running  up 
the  veranda  steps.  "  He  is  here !  Please 
hurry,  because  he's  going  to  have  a  battle !  " 

She  came  slowly,  pale  and  lovely  in  her 
black  gown,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  There  is  a  battle  going  on  all  around  us, 
isn't  there?"  she  asked.  "That  is  what  all 
this  dreadful  uproar  means  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  "  there  is  trouble  on  the 
other  side  of  those  hills." 

"  Do  you  think  there  will  be  fighting  here  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

She  motioned  him  to  a  veranda  chair,  then 
seated  herself.  "  What  shall  we  do  ?  "  she 
asked  calmly.  "  I  am  not  alarmed — but  my 
grandfather  is  bedridden,  and  my  brother  is 
a  child.  Is  it  safe  to  stay  ?  " 

The  bandmaster  looked  at  her  helplessly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  repeated — "  I  don't 
know  what  to  say.  Nobody  seems  to  under 
stand  what  is  happening;  we  in  the  regiment 
are  never  told  anything;  we  know  nothing 


28  Special  Messenger 

except  what  passes  under  our  eyes."  He  broke 
off  suddenly ;  the  situation,  her  loneliness,  the 
impending  danger,  appalled  him. 

"  May  I  ask  a  little  favor  ?  "  she  said,  rising. 
"  Would  you  mind  coming  in  a  moment  to  see 
my  grandfather  ?  " 

He  stood  up  obediently,  sheathed  sabre  in 
his  left  hand ;  she  led  the  way  across  the 
hall  and  up  the  stairs,  opened  the  door, 
and  motioned  toward  the  bed.  At  first  he 
saw  nothing  save  the  pillows  and  snowy 
spread. 

"  Will  you  speak  to  him  ?  "  she  whispered. 

He  approached  the  bed,  cap  in  hand. 

"  He  is  very  old,"  she  said ;  "  he  was  a 
soldier  of  Washington.  He  desires  to  see  a 
soldier  of  the  Union." 

And  now  the  bandmaster  perceived  the  oc 
cupant  of  the  bed,  a  palsied,  bloodless  phantom 
of  the  past — an  inert,  bedridden,  bony  thing 
that  looked  dead  until  its  deep  eyes  opened 
and  fixed  themselves  on  him. 

"  This  is  a  Union  soldier,  grandfather,"  she 
said,  kneeling  on  the  floor  beside  him.  And 
to  the  bandmaster  she  said  in  a  low  voice: 
"  Would  you  mind  taking  his  hand  ?  He  can 
not  move." 


Noncombatants  29 

The  bandmaster  bent  stiffly  above  the  bed 
and  took  the  old  man's  hand  in  his. 

The  sunlit  room  trembled  in  the  cannonade. 

"  That  is  all,"  said  the  girl  simply.  She 
took  the  fleshless  hand,  kissed  it,  and  laid  it 
on  the  bedspread.  "  A  soldier  of  Washing 
ton,"  she  said  dreamily.  "  I  am  glad  he  has 
seen  you — I  think  he  understands:  but  he  is 
very,  very  old." 

She  lingered  a  moment  to  touch  the  white 
hair  with  her  hand;  the  bandmaster  stepped 
back  to  let  her  pass,  then  put  on  his  cap, 
hooked  his  sabre,  turned  squarely  toward  the 
bed  and  saluted. 

The  phantom  watched  him  as  a  dying  eagle 
watches ;  then  the  slim  hand  of  the  grand 
daughter  fell  on  the  bandmaster's  arm,  and  he 
turned  and  clanked  out  into  the  open  air. 

The  boy  stood  waiting  for  them,  and  as  they 
appeared,  he  caught  their  hands  in  each  of  his, 
talking  all  the  while  and  walking  with  them 
to  the  gateway,  where  pony  and  charger  stood, 
nose  to  nose  under  the  trees. 

"If  you  need  anybody  to  dash  about  carry 
ing  dispatches,"  the  boy  ran  on,  "  why,  I'll 
do  it  for  you.  My  father  was  a  soldier,  and 
I'm  going  to  be  one,  and  I " 


30  Special  Messenger 

"  Billy,"  said  the  bandmaster  abruptly, 
"  when  we  charge,  go  up  on  that  hill  and 
watch  us.  If  we  don't  come  back,  you  must 
be  ready  to  act  a  man's  part.  Your  sister 
counts  on  you." 

They  stood  a  moment  there  together,  saying 
nothing.  Presently  some  mounted  officers  on 
the  hill  wheeled  their  horses  and  came  spurring 
toward  the  column  drawn  up  along  the  road. 
A  trumpet  spoke  briskly;  the  bandmaster 
turned  to  the  boy's  sister,  looked  straight  into 
her  eyes,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  I  think  we're  going,"  he  said ;  "  I  am  try 
ing  to  thank  you —  I  don't  know  how.  Good- 
by." 

"  Is  it  a  charge  ?  "  cried  the  boy. 

"  Good-by,"  said  the  bandmaster,  smiling, 
holding  the  boy's  hand  tightly.  Then  he 
mounted,  touched  his  cap,  wheeled,  and  trotted 
off,  freeing  his  sabre  with  his  right  hand. 

The  colonel  had  already  drawn  his  sabre,  the 
chief  bugler  sat  his  saddle,  bugle  lifted,  wait 
ing.  A  loud  order,  repeated  from  squadron  to 
squadron,  ran  down  the  line ;  the  restive  horses 
wheeled,  trampled  forward,  and  halted. 

"  Draw — sabres !  " 

The  air  shrilled  with  the  swish  of  steel. 


N  on  comb  at  ants  31 

Far  down  the  road  horsemen  were  galloping 
in — the  returning  pickets. 

"  Forward !  " 

They  were  moving. 

"  Steady — right  dress !  "  taken  up  in  turn 
by  the  company  officers — "  steady — right 
dress !  " 

The  bandmaster  swung  his  sabre  forward  ; 
the  mounted  band  followed. 

Far  away  across  the  level  fields  something 
was  stirring;  the  colonel  saw  it  and  turned  in 
his  saddle,  scanning  the  column  that  moved 
forward  on  a  walk. 

Half  a  mile,  and,  passing  a  hill,  an  infantry 
regiment  rose  in  the  shallow  trenches  to  cheer 
them.  Instantly  the  mounted  band  burst  out 
into  "  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me  " ;  an  electric 
thrill  passed  along  the  column. 

"  Steady !  Steady !  Right  dress !  "  rang 
the  calm  orders  as  a  wood,  almost  behind 
them,  was  suddenly  fringed  with  white  smoke 
and  a  long,  rolling  crackle  broke  out. 

"  'By  fours — right-about — wheel !  " 

The  band  swung  out  to  the  right;  the 
squadrons  passed  on ;  and — "  Steady !  Trot ! 
Steady — right  dress — gallop !  "  came  the 
orders. 


32  Special  Messenger 

The  wild  music  of  "  Garryowen  "  set  the 
horses  frantic — and  the  men,  too.  The  band, 
still  advancing  at  a  walk,  was  dropping  rapidly 
behind.  A  bullet  hit  kettle-drummer  Pills- 
bury,  and  he  fell  with  a  grunt,  doubling  up 
across  his  nigh  kettle-drum.  A  moment  later 
Peters  struck  his  cymbals  wildly  together  and 
fell  clean  out  of  his  saddle,  crashing  to  the 
sod.  Schwarz,  his  trombone  pierced  by  a  ball, 
swore  aloud  and  dragged  his  frantic  horse  into 
line. 

"  Right  dress ! "  said  the  bandmaster 
blandly,  mastering  his  own  splendid  mount  as 
a  bullet  grazed  its  shoulder. 

They  were  in  the  smoke  now,  they  heard 
the  yelling  charge  ahead,  the  rifle  fire  raging, 
swelling  to  a  terrific  roar;  and  they  marched 
forward,  playing  "  Garryowen  " — not  very 
well,  for  Connor's  jaw  was  half  gone,  and 
Bradley 's  horse  was  down;  and  the  band 
master,  reeling  in  the  saddle,  parried  blow  on 
blow  from  a  clubbed  rifle,  until  a  stunning 
crack  alongside  of  the  head  laid  him  flat  across 
his  horse's  neck.  And  there  he  clung  till  he 
tumbled  off,  a  limp,  loose-limbed  mass,  lying 
in  the  trampled  grass  under  the  heavy  pall  of 
smoke. 


Noncombatants  33 

Long  before  sunset  the  echoing  thunder  in 
the  hills  had  ceased;  the  edge  of  the  great 
battle  that  had  skirted  Sandy  River,  with  a 
volley  or  two  and  an  obscure  cavalry  charge, 
was  ended.  Beyond  the  hills,  far  away  on  the 
horizon,  the  men  of  the  North  were  tramping 
forward  through  the  Confederacy.  The  im 
mense  exodus  had  begun  again;  the  invasion 
was  developing;  and  as  the  tremendous  red 
spectre  receded,  the  hem  of  its  smoky  robe 
brushed  Sandy  River  and  was  gone,  leaving  a 
scorched  regiment  or  two  along  the  railroad, 
and  a  hospital  at  Oxley  Court  House  over 
crowded. 

In  the  sunset  light  the  cavalry  returned 
passing  the  white  mansion  on  the  hill.  They 
brought  in  their  dead  and  wounded  on  hay 
wagons ;  and  the  boy,  pale  as  a  spectre,  looked 
on,  while  the  creaking  wagons  passed  by 
under  the  trees. 

But  it  was  his  sister  whose  eyes  caught  the 
glitter  of  a  gilt  and  yellow  sleeve  lying  across 
the  hay;  and  she  dropped  her  brother's  hand 
and  ran  out  into  the  road. 

"Is  he  dead?"  she  asked  the  trooper  who 
was  driving. 

"  No,  miss.    Will  you  take  him  in  ?  " 


34  Special  Messenger 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  Bring  him." 

The  driver  drew  rein,  wheeled  his  team,  and 
drove  into  the  great  gateway.  "  Hospital's 
plum  full,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  Wait ;  I'll  carry 
him  up.  Head's  bust  a  leetle — that's  all. 
A  day's  nussin'  will  bring  him  into  camp 
again." 

The  trooper  staggered  upstairs  with  his 
burden,  leaving  a  trail  of  dark,  wet  spots 
along  the  stairs,  even  up  to  the  girl's  bed, 
where  he  placed  the  wounded  man. 

The  bandmaster  became  conscious  when 
they  laid  him  on  the  bed,  but  the  concussion 
troubled  his  eyes  so  that  he  was  not  certain 
that  she  was  there  until  she  bent  close  over 
him,  looking  down  at  him  in  silence. 

"  I  thought  of  you — when  I  was  falling," 
he  explained  vaguely — "  only  of  you." 

The  color  came  into  her  face ;  but  her  eyes 
were  steady.  She  set  the  flaring  dip  on  the 
bureau  and  came  back  to  the  bed.  "  We 
thought  of  you,  too,"  she  said. 

His  restless  hand,  fumbling  the  quilt,  closed 
on  hers ;  his  eyes  were  shut,  but  his  lips  moved, 
and  she  bent  nearer  to  catch  his  words : 

"  We  noncombatants  get  into  heaps  of 
trouble — don't  we  ?  " 


Noncombatants  35 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  smiling;  "but  the 
worst  is  over  now." 

"  There  is  worse  coming." 

"What?" 

"  We  march — to-morrow.  I  shall  never  see 
you  again." 

After  a  silence  she  strove'  gently  to  release 
her  hand;  but  his  held  it;  and  after  a  long 
while,  as  he  seemed  to  be  asleep,  she  sat  down 
on  the  bed's  edge,  moving  very  softly  lest  he 
awaken.  All  the  tenderness  of  innocence  was 
in  her  gaze,, as  she  laid  her  other  hand  over  his 
and  left  it  there,  even  after  he  stirred  and  his 
unclosing  eyes  met  hers. 

"  Celia !  "  called  the  boy,  from  the  darkened 
stairway,  "there's  a  medical  officer  here." 

"  Bring  him,"  she  said.  She  rose,  her 
lingering  fingers  still  in  his,  looking  down  at 
him  all  the  while ;  their  hands  parted,  and  she 
moved  backward  slowly,  her  young  eyes  al 
ways  on  his. 

The  medical  officer  passed  her,  stepping 
quickly  to  the  bedside,  stopped  short,  hesitated, 
and  bending,  opened  the  clotted  shirt,  placing 
a  steady  hand  over  the  heart. 

The  next  moment  he  straightened  up,  pulled 
the  sheet  over  the  bandmaster's  face,  and 
4 


Special  Messenger 


turned  on  his  heel,  nodding  curtly  to  the  girl 
as  he  passed  out. 

When  he  had  gone,  she  walked  slowly  to 
the  bed  and  drew  the  sheet  from  the  band 
master's  face. 

And  as  she  stood  there,  dry-eyed,  mute, 
from  the  dusky  garden  came  the  whispering 
cry  of  the  widow  bird,  calling,  calling  to  the 
dead  that  answer  never  more. 


PART  TWO 
WHAT   SHE    BECAME 


II 


SPECIAL   MESSENGER 

the  third  day  the  pursuit  had 
become  so  hot,  so  unerring, 
that  she  dared  no  longer  follow 
the  rutty  cart  road.  Toward 
sundown  she  wheeled  her  big 
bony  roan  into  a  cow  path  which  twisted 
through  alders  for  a  mile  or  two,  emerging  at 
length  on  a  vast  stretch  of  rolling  country, 
where  rounded  hills  glimmered  golden  in  the 
rays  of  the  declining  sun.  Tall  underbrush 
flanked  the  slopes;  little  streams  ran  darkling 
through  the  thickets;  the  ground  was  moist, 
39 


40  Special  Messenger 

even  on  the  ridges ;  and  she  could  not  hope  to 
cover  the  deep  imprint  of  her  horse's  feet. 

She  drew  bridle,  listening,  her  dark  eyes 
fixed  on  the  setting  sun.  There  was  no  sound 
save  the  breathing  of  her  horse,  the  far  sweet 
trailing  song  of  a  spotted  sparrow,  the  under 
tones  of  some  hidden  rill  welling  up  through 
matted  tangles  of  vine  and  fern  and  long  wild 
grasses. 

Sitting  her  worn  saddle,  sensitive  face 
partly  turned,  she  listened,  her  eyes  sweeping 
the  bit  of  open  ground  behind  her.  Nothing 
moved  there. 

Presently  she  slipped  off  one  gauntlet, 
fumbled  in  her  corsage,  drew  out  a  crumpled 
paper,  and  spread  it  flat.  It  was  a  map.  With 
one  finger  she  traced  her  road,  bending  in  her 
saddle,  eyebrows  gathering  in  perplexity. 
Back  and  forth  moved  the  finger,  now  hover 
ing  here  and  there  in  hesitation,  now  lifted  to 
her  lips  in  silent  uncertainty.  Twice  she 
turned  her  head,  intensely  alert,  but  there  was 
no  sound  save  the  cawing  of  crows  winging 
across  the  deepening  crimson  in  the  west. 

At  last  she  folded  the  map  and  thrust  it 
into  the  bosom  of  her  mud-splashed  habit; 
then,  looping  up  the  skirt  of  her  kirtle,  she 


Special  Messenger  41 

dismounted,  leading  her  horse  straight  into 
the  oak  scrub  and  on  through  a  dim  mile  of 
woodland,  always  descending,  until  the  clear 
rushing  music  of  a  stream  warned  her,  and  she 
came  out  along  the  thicket's  edge  into  a  grassy 
vale  among  the  hills. 

A  cabin  stood  there,  blue  smoke  lazily  rising 
from  the  chimney ;  a  hen  or  two  sat  huddled 
on  the  shafts  of  an  ancient  buckboard  standing 
by  the  door.  In  the  clear,  saffron-tinted  even 
ing  light  some  ducks  sailed  and  steered  about 
the  surface  of  a  muddy  puddle  by  the  barn, 
sousing  their  heads,  wriggling  their  tails  con 
tentedly. 

As  she  walked  toward  the  shanty,  leading 
her  horse,  an  old  man  appeared  at  the  open 
doorway,  milking  stool  under  one  gaunt  arm, 
tin  pail  dangling  from  the  other.  Astonished, 
he  regarded  the  girl  steadily,  answering  her 
low,  quick  greeting  with  a  nod  of  his  unkempt 
gray  head. 

"  How  far  is  the  pike?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  might  be  six  mile,"  he  said,  staring. 

"  Is  there  a  wood  road  ?  " 

He  nodded. 

"  Where  does  it  lead  ?  " 

"  It    leads    just    now,"    he    replied    grimly, 


42  Special  Messenger 

"  into  a  hell's  mint  o'  rebels.  What's  your 
business  in  these  parts,  ma'am  ?  " 

Her  business  was  to  trust  no  one,  yet  there 
had  been  occasions  when  she  had  been  forced 
to  such  a  risk.  This  was  one.  She  looked 
around  at  the  house,  the  dismantled  buckboard 
tenanted  by  roosting  chickens,  the  ducks  in  the 
puddle,  the  narrow  strip  of  pasture  fringing 
the  darkening  woods.  She  looked  into  his 
weather-ravaged  visage,  searching  the  small 
eyes  that  twinkled  at  her  intently  out  of  a  mass 
of  wrinkles. 

"  Are  you  a  Union  man  ?  "  she  asked. 

His  face  hardened ;  a  slow  color  crept  into 
the  skin  above  his  sharp  cheek  bones.  "  What's 
that  to  you  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Here  in  Pennsylvania  we  expect  to  find 
Union  sentiments.  Besides,  you  just  now 
spoke  of  rebels " 

"  Yes,  an'  I'll  say  it  again,"  he  repeated 
doggedly ;  "  the  Pennsylvany  line  is  crawlin' 
with  rebels,  an'  they'll  butt  into  our  cavalry 
before  morning." 

She  laughed,  stepping  nearer,  the  muddy 
skirt  of  her  habit  lifted. 

"  I  must  get  to  Reynolds's  corps  to-night," 
she  said  confidingly.  "  I  came  through  the 


Special  Messenger  43 

lines  three  days  ago;  their  cavalry  have  fol 
lowed  me  ever  since.  I  can't  shake  them  off ; 
they'll  be  here  by  morning — as  soon  as  there's 
light  enough  to  trace  my  horse." 

She  looked  back  at  the  blue  woods  thought 
fully,  patting  her  horse's  sleek  neck. 

He  followed  her  glance,  then  his  narrowing 
eyes  focused  on  her  as  she  turned  her  head 
toward  him  again. 

"  What  name  ?  "  he  asked  harshly,  hand  to 
his  large  ear. 

She  smiled,  raising  her  riding  whip  in 
quaint  salute;  and  in  a  low  voice  she  named 
herself  demurely. 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  Gosh ! "  he  muttered,  fascinated  gaze 
never  leaving  her ;  "  to  think  that  you  are  that 
there  gal !  I  heard  tell  you  was  young,  an' 
then  I  heard  tell  you  was  old  an'  fat,  ma'am. 
I  guess  there  ain't  many  has  seen  you  to  take 
notice.  I  guess  you  must  be  hard  run  to  even 
tell  me  who  ye  be  ?  " 

She  said  quietly :  "  I  think  they  mean  to  get 
me  this  time.  Is  there  a  clear  road  anywhere? 
Even  if  I  leave  my  horse  and  travel  afoot?" 

"  Is  it  a  hangin'  matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 


44  Special  Messenger 

Presently  he  said :  "  The  hull  blame  country's 
crawlin'  with  rebel  cavalry.  I  was  to  Mink 
Creek,  an'  they  was  passin'  on  the  pike, 
wagons  an'  guns  as  fur  as  I  could  see.  They 
levied  on  Swamp  Holler  at  sunup ;  they  was 
on  every  road  along  the  State  line.  There 
ain't  no  road  nor  cow  path  clear  that  way." 

"  And  none  the  other  way,"  she  said. 
"  Can't  you  help  me  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  gravely,  then  his  small  eyes 
swept  the  limited  landscape. 

"  A  hangin'  matter,"  he  mused,  scratching 
his  gray  head  reflectively.  "  An'  if  they  ketch 
you  here,  I  guess  I'll  go  to  Libby,  too.  Hey?  " 

He  passed  his  labor-worn  hand  over  his 
eyes,  pressing  the  lids,  and  stood  so,  minute 
after  minute,  buried  in  thought. 

"  Waal,"  "he  said,  dropping  his  hand  and 
blinking  in  the  ruddy  glow  from  the  west,  "  I 
guess  I  ain't  done  nothin'  fur  the  Union  yet, 
but  I'm  a-goin'  to  now,  miss." 

He  looked  around  once  more,  his  eyes  rest 
ing  on  familiar  scenery,  then  he  set  down  milk 
ing  stool  and  pail  and  shuffled  out  to  where 
her  horse  stood. 

"  Guess  I'll  hev  to  hitch  your  hoss  up  to 
that  there  buckboard,"  he  drawled.  "  My  old 


Special  Messenger  45 

nag  is  dead  two  year  since.  You  go  in,  miss, 
an'  dress  in  them  clothes  a-hangin'  onto  that 
peg  by  the  bed,"  he  added,  with  an  effort. 
"  Use  'em  easy ;  they  was  hers." 

She  entered  the  single  room  of  the  cabin, 
where  stove,  table,  chair,  and  bed  were  the  only 
furniture.  A  single  cheap  print  gown  and  a 
sunbonnet  hung  from  a  nail  at  the  bed's  foot, 
and  she  reached  up  and  unhooked  the  gar 
ment.  It  was  ragged  but  clean,  and  the  bonnet 
freshly  ironed. 

Through  the  window  she  saw  the  old  man 
unsaddling  her  horse  and  fitting  him  with 
rusty  harness.  She  closed  the  cabin  door, 
drew  the  curtain  at  the  window,  and  began  to 
unbutton  her  riding  jacket.  As  her  clothing 
fell  from  her,  garment  after  garment,  that 
desperate  look  came  into  her  pale  young  face 
again,  and  she  drew  from  her  pocket  a  heavy 
army  revolver  and  laid  it  on  the  chair  beside 
her.  There  was  scarce  light  enough  left  to  see 
by  in  the  room.  She  sat  down,  dragging  off 
her  spurred  boots,  stripping  the  fine  silk  stock 
ings  from  her  feet,  then  rose  and  drew  on  the 
faded  print  gown. 

Now  she  needed  more  light,  so  she  opened 
the  door  wide  and  pushed  aside  the  curtain. 


46  Special  Messenger 

A  fragment  of  cracked  mirror  was  nailed  to 
the  door.  She  faced  it,  rapidly  undoing  the 
glossy  masses  of  her  hair;  then  lifting  her 
gown,  she  buckled  the  army  belt  underneath, 
slipped  the  revolver  into  it,  smoothed  out  the 
calico,  and  crossed  the  floor  to  the  bed  again, 
at  the  foot  of  which  a  pair  of  woman's  coarse, 
low  shoes  stood  on  the  carpetless  floor.  Into 
these  she  slipped  her  naked  feet. 

He  was  waiting  for  her  when  she  came  out 
into  the  yellow  evening  light,  squatting  there 
in  his  buckboard,  reins  sagging. 

"  There's  kindlin'  to  last  a  week,"  he  said, 
"  the  ax  is  in  the  barn,  an'  ye'll  find  a  bin 
full  o'  corn  meal  there  an'  a  side  o'  bacon  in 
the  cellar.  Them  hens,"  he  added  wistfully 
"  is  Dominickers.  She  was  fond  o'  them — 
an'  the  Chiny  ducks,  too." 

"  I'll  be  kind  to  them,"  she  said. 

He  rested  his  lean  jaw  in  one  huge  hand, 
musing,  dim-eyed,  silent.  Far  away  a  cow  bell 
tinkled,  and  he  turned  his  head,  peering  out 
across  the  tangled  pasture  lot. 

"  We  called  our  caow  Jinny,"  he  said. 
"  She's  saucy  and  likes  to  plague  folks.  But 
I  don't  never  chase  her;  no,  ma'am.  You  jest 
set  there  by  them  pasture  bars,  kinder  foxin' 


Special  Messenger  47 

that  you  ain't  thinkin'  o'  nothin',  and  Jinny 
she'll  come  along  purty  soon." 

The  girl  nodded. 

"  Waal,"  he  muttered,  rousing  up,  "  I  guess 
it's  time  to  go."  He  looked  at  her,  his 
eyes  resting  upon  the  clothing  of  his  dead 
wife. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  I've  give  all  I've  got 
to  the  Union.  Now,  ma'am,  what  shall  I  tell 
our  boys  if  I  git  through  ?  " 

In  a  low,  clear  voice  she  gave  him  the 
message  to  Reynolds,  repeating  it  slowly  until 
he  nodded  his  comprehension. 

"  If  they  turn  you  back,"  she  said,  "  and  if 
they  follow  you  here,  remember  I'm  your 
daughter." 

He  nodded  again.    "  My  Cynthy." 

"Cynthia?" 

"  Yaas,  'm.  Cynthy  was  her  name,  you 
see ;  James  is  mine,  endin'  in  Gray.  I'll  come 
back  when  I  can.  I  guess  there's  vittles  to 
spare  an'  garden  sass " 

He  passed  his  great  cracked  knuckles  over 
his  face  again,  digging  hastily  into  the  corners 
of  his  eyes,  then  leaned  forward  and  shook  the 
rusty  reins. 

"Git  up!"  he  said  thoughtfully,  and  the 


48  Special  Messenger 

ancient  buckboard  creaked  away  into  the 
thickening  twilight. 

She  watched  him  from  the  door,  lingering 
there,  listening  to  the  creak  of  the  wheels  long 
after  he  had  disappeared.  She  was  deadly 
tired — too  tired  to  eat,  too  tired  to  think — 
yet  there  was  more  to  be  done  before  she 
closed  her  eyes.  The  blanket  on  the  bed  she 
spread  upon  the  floor,  laid  in  it  her  saddle  and 
bridle,  boots,  papers,  map,  and  clothing,  and 
made  a  bundle ;  then  slinging  it  on  her  slender 
back,  she  carried  it  up  the  ladder  to  the  loft 
under  the  roof. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  lay  on  the  bed  below, 
the  back  of  one  hand  across  her  closed  eyes, 
breathing  deeply  as  a  sleeping  child — the  most 
notorious  spy  in  all  America,  the  famous 
"  Special  Messenger,"  carrying  locked  under 
her  smooth  young  breast  a  secret  the  con 
sequence  of  which  no  man  could  dare  to 
dream  of. 

Dawn  silvering  the  east  aroused  her.  Cock 
crow,  ducks  quacking,  the  lowing  of  the  cow, 
the  swelling  melody  of  wild  birds — these  were 
the  sounds  that  filled  her  waking  ears. 

Motionless  there  on  the  bed  in  the  dim  room, 


Special  Messenger  49 

delicate  bare  arms  outstretched,  hair  tumbled 
over  brow  and  shoulder,  she  lay,  lost  in  fear 
less  retrospection — absolutely  fearless,  for 
courage  was  hers  without  effort;  peril  ex 
hilarated  like  wine,  without  reaction ;  every 
nerve  and  contour  of  her  body  was  instinct 
with  daring,  and  only  the  languor  of  her  dark 
eyes  misled  the  judgment  of  those  she  had  to 
deal  with. 

Presently  she  sat  up  in  bed,  yawned  lightly, 
tapping  her  red  lips  with  the  tips  of  her 
fingers;  then,  drawing  her  revolver  from 
beneath  the  pillow,  she  examined  the  cylinder, 
replaced  the  weapon,  and  sprang  out  of  bed, 
stretching  her  arms,  a  faint  smile  hovering  on 
her  face. 

The  water  in  the  stream  was  cold,  but  not 
too  cold  for  her,  nor  were  the  coarse  towels  too 
rough,  sending  the  blood  racing  through  her 
from  head  to  foot. 

Her  toilet  made,  she  lighted  the  fire  in  the 
cracked  stove,  set  a  pot  of  water  boiling,  and 
went  out  to  the  doorstep,  calling  the  feathered 
flock  around  her,  stirring  their  meal  in  a  great 
pan  the  while  her  eyes  roamed  about  the 
open  spaces  of  meadow  and  pasture  for  a  sign 
of  those  who  surely  must  trace  her  here. 


50  Special  Messenger 

Her  breakfast  was  soon  over — an  ash  cake, 
a  new  egg  from  the  barn,  a  bowl  of  last  night's 
creamy  milk.  She  ate  slowly,  seated  by  the 
window,  raising  her  head  at  intervals  to  watch 
the  forest's  edge. 

Nobody  came;  the  first  pink  sunbeams  fell 
level  over  the  pasture ;  dew  sparkled  on  grass 
and  foliage ;  birds  flitted  across  her  line  of 
vision;  the  stream  sang  steadily,  flashing  in 
the  morning  radiance. 

One  by  one  the  ducks  stretched,  flapped  their 
snowy  wings,  wiggled  their  fat  tails,  and 
waddled  solemnly  down  to  the  water;  hens 
wandered  pensively  here  and  there,  pecking  at 
morsels  that  attracted  them ;  the  tinkle  of  the 
cow  bell  sounded  pleasantly  from  a  near  wil 
low  thicket. 

She  washed  her  dishes,  set  the  scant  furni 
ture  in  place,  made  up  the  bed  with  the  clean 
sheet  spread  the  night  before,  and  swept  the 
floor. 

On  the  table  she  had  discovered,  carefully 
folded  up,  the  greater  portion  of  a  stocking, 
knitting  needles  still  sticking  in  it,  the  ball  of 
gray  yarn  attached.  But  she  could  not  endure 
to  sit  there ;  she  must  have  more  space  to  watch 
for  what  she  knew  was  coming.  Her  hair  she 


Special  Messenger  51 

twisted  up  as  best  she  might,  set  the  pink  sun- 
bonnet  on  her  head,  smoothed  out  the  worn 
print  dress,  which  was  not  long  enough  to  hide 
her  slim  bare  ankles,  and  went  out,  taking  her 
knitting  with  her. 

Upon  the  hill  along  the  edges  of  the  pasture 
where  the  woods  cast  a  luminous  shadow  she 
found  a  comfortable  seat  in  the  sun-dried 
grasses,  and  here  she  curled  up,  examining 
the  knitting  in  her  hands,  eyes  lifted  every 
moment  to  steal  a  glance  around  the  sunlit 
solitude. 

An  hour  crept  by,  marked  by  the  sun  in 
mounting  splendor ;  the  sweet  scent  of  drying 
grass  and  fern  filled  her  lungs ;  the  birds' 
choral  thrilled  her  with  the  loveliness  of  life. 
A  little  Southern  song  trembled  on  her  lips, 
and  her  hushed  voice  murmuring  was  soft  as 
the  wild  bees'  humming: 

"Ah,  who  could  couple  thought  of  war  and  crime 
With  such  a  blessed  time? 
Who,  in  the  west  wind's  aromatic  breath, 
Could  hear  the  call  of  Death?" 

The  gentle  Southern  poet's  flowing  rhythm 
was  echoed  by  the  distant  stream : 
5 


52  Special  Messenger 

"...  A  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings — you  know  not  why — 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await 
Before  a  palace  gate 
Some  wondrous  pageant " 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  fixing  them  upon  the 
willow  thicket  below,  where  the  green  tops 
swayed  as  though  furrowed  by  a  sudden  wind  ; 
and  watching  calmly,  her  lips  whispered  on, 
following  the  quaint  rhythm : 

"And  yet  no  sooner  shall  the  Spring  awake 
The  voice  of  wood  and  brake 

Than  she  shall  rouse — for  all  her  tranquil  charms — 
A  million  men  to  arms." 

The  willow  tops  were  tossing  violently.  She 
watched  them,  murmuring: 

"Oh!  standing  on  this  desecrated  mold, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring— kneeling  on  the  sod, 
And  calling  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills 
Upon  the  ancient  hills 

To  fall  and  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves." 

Her  whisper  ceased ;  she  sat,  lips  parted, 
eyes  fastened  on  the  willows.  Suddenly  a 


Special  Messenger  53 

horseman  broke  through  the  thicket,  then  an 
other,  another,  carbines  slung,  sabres  jingling, 
rider  following  rider  at  a  canter,  sitting  their 
horses  superbly — the  graceful,  reckless,  match 
less  cavalry  under  whose  glittering  gray  cur 
tain  the  most  magnificent  army  that  the  South 
ever  saw  was  moving  straight  into  the  heart  of 
the  Union. 

Fascinated,  she  watched  an  officer  dismount, 
advance  to  the  house,  enter  the  open  doorway, 
and  disappear.  Minute  after  minute  passed; 
the  troopers  quietly  sat  their  saddles;  the 
frightened  chickens  ventured  back,  roaming 
curiously  about  these  strange  horses  that  stood 
there  stamping,  whisking  their  tails,  tossing 
impatient  heads  in  the  sunshine. 

Presently  the  officer  reappeared  and  walked 
straight  to  the  barn,  a  trooper  dismounting  to 
follow  him.  They  remained  in  the  barn  for  a 
few  moments  only,  then  hurried  out  again, 
heads  raised,  scanning  the  low  circling  hills. 
Ah !  Now  they  caught  sight  of  her !  She  saw 
the  officer  come  swinging  up  the  hillside,  but 
tons,  spurs,  and  sword  hilt  glittering  in  the 
sun;  she  watched  his  coming  with  a  calm  al 
most  terrible  in  its  breathless  concentration. 
Nearer,  nearer  he  came,  mounting  the  easy 


54  Special  Messenger 

slope  with  a  quick,  boyish  swing ;  and  now  he 
had  halted,  slouch  hat  aloft ;  and  she  heard  his 
pleasant,  youthful  voice: 

"  I  reckon  you  haven't  seen  a  stranger  pass 
this  way,  ma'am,  have  you  ?  " 

"  There  was  a  lady  came  last  night,"  she  an 
swered  innocently. 

"  That's  the  one !  "  he  said,  in  his  quick, 
eager  voice.  "  Can  you  tell  me  where  she 
went  ?  " 

"  She  said  she  was  going  west." 

"  Has  she  gone?  " 

"  She  left  the  house  when  I  did,"  answered 
the  girl  simply. 

"  Riding!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  She  came  on  a 
hoss,  I  reckon  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  she  rode  west?" 

"  I  saw  her  going  west,"  she  nodded,  resum 
ing  her  knitting. 

The  officer  turned  toward  the  troopers  be 
low,  drew  out  a  handkerchief  and  whipped 
the  air  with  it  for  a  second  or  two,  then 
made  a  sweeping  motion  with  his  arm,  and 
drawing  his  sabre  struck  it  downward  four 
times. 

Instantly  the  knot  of  troopers    fell   apart, 


Special  Messenger  55 

scattering  out  and  spurring  westward  in 
diverging  lines ;  the  officer  watched  them  until 
the  last  horse  had  disappeared,  then  he  lazily 
sheathed  his  sabre,  unbuckled  a  field  glass, 
adjusted  it,  and  seated  himself  on  the  grass 
beside  her. 

"Have  you  lived  here  long?"  he  asked 
pleasantly,  setting  the  glass  to  his  eye  and  care 
fully  readjusting  the  lens. 

"  No." 

"Your  father  is  living,  is  he  not?" 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  I  reckon  Gilson's  command  met  him  a  piece 
back  in  the  scrub,  driving  a  wagon  and  a  fine 
horse." 

She  said  nothing ;  her  steady  fingers  worked 
the  needles,  and  presently  he  heard  her  soft 
ly  counting  the  stitches  as  she  turned  the 
heel. 

"He  said  we'd  find  his  '  Cynthy '  here," 
observed  the  youthful  officer,  lowering  his 
glass.  "  Are  you  Cynthia  Gray,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  He  named  me  Cynthia,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile. 

He  plucked  a  blade  of  grass,  and  placing 
it  between  his  white  teeth,  gazed  at  her  so 
steadily  that  she  dropped  a  stitch,  recovered  it, 


56  Special  Messenger 

and  presently  he  saw  her  lips  resuming  the 
silent  count.  He  reseated  himself  on  the  grass, 
laying  his  field  glass  beside  him. 

"  I  reckon  your  folk  are  all  Yankee,"  he 
ventured  softly. 

She  nodded. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  us?  Do  you  hate  us, 
ma'am?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  stealing  a  glance  at  him 
from  her  lovely  eyes.  If  that  was  part  of  her 
profession,  she  had  learned  it  well ;  for  he 
laughed  and  stretched  out,  resting  easily  on 
one  elbow,  looking  up  at  her  admiringly  under 
her  faded  sunbonnet. 

"  Are  you  ever  lonely  here  ?  "  he  inquired 
gravely. 

Again  her  dark  eyes  rested  on  him  shyly, 
but  she  shook  her  head  in  silence. 

"  Never  lonely  without  anybody  to  talk  to?  " 
he  persisted,  removing  his  slouched  army  hat 
and  passing  his  hands  over  his  forehead. 

"  What  have  I  to  say  to  anybody  ?  "  she 
asked  coquettishly. 

A  little  breeze  sprang  up,  stirring  his  curly 
hair  and  fluttering  the  dangling  strings  of  her 
sunbonnet.  He  lay  at  full  length  there,  a 
slender,  athletic  figure  in  his  faded  gray  uni- 


Special  Messenger  57 

form,  idly  pulling  the  grass  up  to  twist  and 
braid  into  a  thin  green  rope. 

The  strange  exhilaration  that  danger  had 
brought  had  now  subsided ;  she  glanced  at  him 
indifferently,  noting  the  well-shaped  head,  the 
boyish  outlines  of  face  and  figure.  He  was  no 
older  than  she — and  not  very  wise  for  his 
years. 

Presently,  very  far  away,  the  dulled  report 
of  a  carbine  sounded,  stirring  a  deadened  echo 
among  the  hills. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yank,  I  reckon,"  he  drawled,  rising  to  his 
feet  and  fixing  his  field  glass  steadily  on  the 
hills  beyond. 

"  Are  you  going  to  have  a  battle  here  ?  " 
she  asked. 

He  laughed.  "  Oh,  no,  Miss  Cynthia. 
That's  only  bushwhacking." 

"  But — but  where  are  they  shooting  ?  " 

He  pointed  to  the  west.  "  There's  Yankee 
cavalry  loafing  in  the  hills.  I  reckon  we'll 
gobble  'em,  too.  But  don't  you  worry,  Miss 
Cynthia,"  he  added  gallantly.  "/  shall  be 
here  to-night,  and  by  sunrise  there  won't  be  a 
soldier  within  ten  miles  of  you." 

"  Within  ten  miles,"  she  murmured ;  "  ten 


58  Special  Messenger 

miles  is  too  near.  I — I  think  I  will  go  back  to 
the  house." 

He  looked  down  at  her ;  she  raised  her  dark 
eyes  to  him ;  then  he  bowed  and  gallantly  held 
out  both  hands,  and  she  laid  her  hands  in  his, 
suffering  him  to  lift  her  to  her  feet. 

The  brief  contact  set  the  color  mounting 
to  his  sunburnt  temples ;  it  had  been  a  long 
while  since  he  had  touched  a  young  girl's 
hand. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  whether  you  would 
care  to  share  my  dinner  ?  " 

She  spoke  naturally,  curiously ;  all  idea  of 
danger  was  over;  she  was  free  to  follow  her 
own  instincts,  which  were  amiable.  Besides, 
the  boy  was  a  gentleman. 

"  If  it  wouldn't  be  too  much  to  ask — too 
inconvenient — "  He  hesitated,  hat  in  hand, 
handsome  face  brightening. 

"  No ;  I  want  you  to  come,"  she  answered 
simply,  and  took  his  hand  in  hers. 

A  deeper  color  swept  his  face  as  they 
descended  the  gentle  slope  together,  she 
amused  and  quietly  diverted  by  his  shyness, 
and  thinking  how  she  meant  to  give  this  boyish 
rebel  a  better  dinner  than  he  had  had  for  many 
a  long  mile. 


Special  Messenger  59 

And  she  did,  he  aiding  her  with  the  vege 
tables,  she  mixing  johnnycake  for  the  entire 
squad,  slicing  the  bacon,  and  setting  the  coffee 
to  boil. 

Toward  midday  the  scouting  squad  re 
turned,  to  find  their  officer  shelling  peas  on  the 
cabin  steps,  and  a  young  girl,  sleeves  at  her 
shoulders,  stirring  something  very  vigorously 
in  a  large  black  kettle — something  that  ex 
haled  an  odor  which  made  the  lank  troopers 
lick  their  gaunt  lips  in  furtive  hope. 

The  sergeant  of  the  troop  reported ;  the 
officer  nodded  and  waved  the  horsemen  away 
to  the  barn,  where  they  were  presently  seen 
squatting  patiently  in  a  row,  sniffing  the  aroma 
that  floated  from  the  cabin  door. 

"  Did  your  men  find  the  lady?  "  she  asked, 
looking  out  at  him  where  he  sat,  busy  with 
the  peas. 

"  No,  Miss  Cynthia.  But  if  she  went  west 
she's  run  into  the  whole  Confederate  cavalry. 
Our  business  is  to  see  she  doesn't  double  back 
here." 

"Why  do  you  follow  her?" 

"  Ah,  Miss  Cynthia,"  he  said  gravely,"  she 
is  that  '  Special  Messenger '  who  has  done 
us  more  damage  than  a  whole  Yankee  army 


60  Special  Messenger 

corps.  We've  got  to  stop  her  this  time — and 
I  reckon  we  will." 

The  girl  stirred  the  soup,  salted  it,  peppered 
it,  lifted  the  pewter  spoon  and  tasted  it. 
Presently  she  called  for  the  peas. 

About  twro  o'clock  that  afternoon  a  row  of 
half-famished  Confederate  cavalrymen  sat 
devouring  the  best  dinner  they  had  eaten 
in  months.  There  was  potato  soup,  there 
was  johnnycake,  smoking  hot  coffee,  crisp 
slices  of  fragrant  bacon,  an  egg  apiece,  and 
a  vegetable  stew.  Trooper  after  trooper 
licked  fingers,  spoon,  and  pannikin,  loosening 
leather  belts  with  gratified  sighs ;  the  pickets 
came  cantering  in  when  the  relief,  stuffed 
to  repletion,  took  their  places,  carbine  on 
thigh. 

Flushed  from  the  heat  of  the  stove,  arms 
still  bared,  the  young  hostess  sat  at  table  with 
the  officer  in  command,  and  watched  him  in 
sympathy  as  he  ate. 

She  herself  ate  little,  tasting  a  morsel  here 
and  there,  drinking  at  times  from  the  cup  of 
milk  beside  her. 

"  I  declare,  Miss  Cynthia,"  he  said,  again 
and  again,  "  this  is  the  finest  banquet,  ma'am, 
that  I  ever  sat  down  to." 


Special  Messenger  61 

She  only  thought,  "  The  boy  was  starving !  " 
and  the  indulgent  smile  deepened  as  she  sat 
there  watching  him,  chin  resting  on  her  linked 
hands. 

At  last  he  was  satisfied,  and  a  little  ashamed, 
too,  of  his  appetite,  but  she  told  him  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  cook  for  him,  and  sent  him  off  to 
the  barn,  where  presently  she  spied  him 
propped  up  in  the  loft  window,  a  map  spread 
on  his  knees,  and  his  field  glass  tucked  under 
one  arm. 

And  now  she  had  leisure  to  think  again,  and 
she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  by  the  window, 
bared  arms  folded,  ankles  crossed,  frowning  in 
meditation. 

She  must  go ;  the  back  trail  was  clear  now. 
But  she  needed  her  own  clothing  and  a  horse. 
Where  could  she  find  a  horse  ? 

Hour  after  hour  she  sat  there.  He  had 
cantered  off  into  the  woods  long  since ;  and  all 
through  the  long  afternoon  she  sat  there 
scheming,  pondering,  a  veiled  sparkle  playing 
under  her  half-closed  lids.  She  saw  him  re 
turning  in  the  last  lingering  sun  rays,  leading 
his  saddled  horse  down  to  the  brook,  and  stand 
there,  one  arm  flung  across  the  crupper,  while 
the  horse  drank  and  shook  his  thoroughbred 


62  Special  Messenger 

head  and  lipped  the  tender  foliage  that  over 
hung  the  water.  There  was  the  horse  she  re 
quired  !  She  must  have  him. 

A  few  minutes  later,  bridle  over  one  arm, 
the  young  officer  came  sauntering  up  to  the 
doorstep.  He  was  pale,  but  he  smiled  when 
he  saw  her,  and  his  weather-beaten  hat  swept 
the  grass  in  salute  as  she  came  to  the  door 
and  looked  down  at  him,  hands  clasped  behind 
her  slender  back. 

"  You  look  dreadfully  tired,"  she  said 
gently.  "  Don't  you  ever  sleep  ?  " 

He  had  been  forty-eight  hours  in  the  saddle, 
but  he  only  laughed  a  gay  denial  of  fatigue. 

She  descended  the  steps,  walked  over  to  the 
horse,  and  patted  neck  and  shoulder,  scanning 
limb  and  chest  and  flank.  The  horse  would 
do! 

"  Will  you  hitch  your  horse  and  come  in  ?  " 
she  asked  sweetly. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am."  He  passed  the  bridle 
through  the  hitching  ring  at  the  door,  and,  hat 
in  hand,  followed  her  into  the  cabin.  His 
boots  dragged  a  little,  but  he  straightened  up, 
and  when  she  had  seated  herself,  he  sank  into 
a  chair,  closing  his  sunken  eyes  for  a  moment, 
only  to  open  them  smiling,  and  lean  forward 


Special  Messenger  63 

on  the  rough  table,  folding  his  arras  under 
him. 

"  You  have  been  very  good  to  us,  Miss 
Cynthia,"  he  said.  "  My  men  want  me  to  say 
so." 

"  Your  men  are  welcome,"  she  answered, 
resting  her  cheek  on  her  hand. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  by  her: 
"  You  are  dying  for  sleep.  Why  do  you  deny 
it?  You  may  lie  down  on  my  bed  if  you 
wish." 

He  protested,  thanking  her,  but  said  he 
would  be  glad  to  sleep  in  the  hay  if  she 
permitted ;  and  he  rose,  steadying  himself  by 
the  back  of  his  chair. 

"  I  always  sleep  bridle  in  hand,"  he  said. 
"  A  barn  floor  is  -luxury  for  my  horse  and 
me." 

That  would  not  do.  The  horse  must  remain. 
She  must  have  that  horse! 

"  I  will  watch  your  horse,"  she  said.  "  Please 
lie  down  there.  I  really  wish  it." 

"  Why,  ma'am,  I  should  never  venture " 

She  looked  at  him;  her  heart  laughed  with 
content.  Here  was  an  easy  way  for  stern 
necessity. 

"  Sleep    soundly,"    she    said,    with    a    gay 


64  Special  Messenger 

smile;  and  before  he  could  interpose,  she 
had  slipped  out  and  shut  the  door  behind 
her. 

The  evening  was  calm ;  the  last  traces  of 
color  were  fading  from  the  zenith.  Pacing 
the  circle  of  the  cabin  clearing,  she  counted  the 
videttes — one  in  the  western  pasture,  one  sit 
ting  his  saddle  in  the  forest  road  to  the  east, 
and  a  horseman  to  the  south,  scarcely  visible 
in  the  gathering  twilight.  She  passed  the 
barnyard,  head  lifted  pensively,  carefully 
counting  the  horses  tethered  there.  Twelve ! 
Then  there  was  no  guard  for  the  northern 
cattle  path — the  trail  over  which  she  and  they 
had  come ! 

Now  walking  slowly  back  to  the  cabin,  she 
dropped  her  slippers  and  mounted  the  steps  on 
bare  feet,  quietly  opening  the  door.  At  first 
in  the  dim  light  she  could  see  nothing,  then 
her  keen  ear  caught  the  quiet  sound  of  his 
breathing,  and  she  stole  over  to  the  bed.  He 
lay  there  asleep. 

Now  seconds  meant  eternity,  perhaps ;  she 
mounted  the  ladder  to  the  attic,  tiptoed  over 
the  loose  boards,  felt  around  for  her  packet, 
and  loosened  the  blanket. 

By  sense  of  touch  alone  she  dressed,  belting 


Special  Messenger  65 

in  the  habit  with  her  girdle,  listening,  every 
sense  alert.  But  her  hand  never  shook,  her 
fingers  were  deft  and  steady,  fastening  button 
and  buckle,  looping  up  her  skirt,  strapping  the 
revolver  to  her  girdle.  She  folded  map  and 
papers  noiselessly,  tucking  them  into  her 
bosom;  then,  carrying  her  spurred  boots,  she 
crept  across  the  boards  again,  and  descended 
the  ladder  without  a  sound. 

The  fading  light  from  the  window  fell  upon 
the  bed  where  he  lay ;  and  she  smiled  almost 
tenderly  as  she  stole  by  him,  he  looked  so 
young  lying  there,  his  curly  head  pillowed  on 
his  arms. 

Another  step  and  she  was1  beside  him ;  an 
other  ;  she  stopped  short,  and  her  heart  seemed 
to  cease  at  the  same  instant.  Was  she  deceived  ? 
Were  his  eyes  wide  open? 

Suddenly  he  sat  bolt-upright  in  the  bed, 
and  at  the  same  instant  she  bent  and  struck 
him  a  stunning  blow  with  the  butt  of  her  re 
volver. 

Breathless,  motionless,  she  saw  him  fall 
back  and  lie  there  without  a  quiver ;  presently 
she  leaned  over  him,  tore  open  his  jacket  and 
shirt,  and  laid  her  steady  hand  upon  his  heart. 
For  a  moment  she  remained  there,  looking 


66  Special  Messenger 

down  into  his  face ;  then  with  a  sob  she  bent 
and  kissed  him  on  the  lips. 

At  midnight,  as  she  was  riding  out  of  the 
hill  scrub,  a  mounted  vidette  hailed  her  on 
the  Gettysburg  pike,  holding  her  there  while 
horseman  after  horseman  galloped  up,  and  the 
officer  of  the  guard  came  cantering  across  the 
fields  at  the  far  summons. 

A  lantern  glimmered,  flared  up;  there  was 
a  laugh,  the  sound  of  a  dozen  horses  backing, 
a  low  voice :  "  Pass !  Special  Messenger  for 
headquarters !  " 

Then  the  lantern-light  flashed  and  went  out ; 
shadowy  horsemen  wheeled  away  east  and 
west,  trotting  silently  to  posts  across  the  sod. 

Far  away  among  the  hills  the  Special  Mes 
senger  was  riding  through  the  night,  head 
bent,  tight-lipped,  her  dark  eyes  wet  with 
tears. 


Ill 


ABSOLUTION 

UST  before  daylight  the  un 
shaven  sentinels  at  headquar 
ters  halted  her;  a  lank  corpo 
ral  arrived,  swinging  a  lighted 
lantern,  which  threw  a  yellow 
radiance  over  horse  and  rider.  Then  she 
dismounted. 

Mud  smeared  her  riding  jacket;  boots  and 
skirt  were  clotted  with  it;  so  was  the  single 
army  spur.  Her  horse  stretched  a  glossy, 
sweating  neck  and  rolled  wisely-suspicious 
eyes  at  the  dazzling  light.  On  the  gray 
6  67 


68  Special  Messenger 

saddle  cloth  glimmered  three  gilt  letters, 
C.  S.  A. 

"  What  name,  ma'am  ?  "  repeated  the  cor 
poral,  coming  closer  with  lifted  lantern,  and 
passing  an  inquiring  thumb  over  the  ominous 
letters  embroidered  on  the  saddle  cloth. 

"  No  name,"  she  said.  "  They  will  under 
stand — inside  there." 

"  That  your  hoss,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  be." 

"  Swap  him  with  a  Johnny  ?  " 

"  No ;  took  him  from  a  Johnny." 

"  Shucks !  "  said  the  corporal,  examining 
the  gilt  letters.  Then,  looking  around  at  her : 

"  Wa'll,  the  ginrall,  he's  some  busy." 

"  Please  say  that  his  messenger  is  here." 

"  Orders  is  formuel,  ma'am.  I  dassent " 

She  pronounced  a  word  under  her  breath. 

"Hey?" 

She  nodded. 

"  'Tain't  her?"  demanded  the  corporal  in 
credulously. 

She  nodded  again.  The  corporal's  lantern 
and  jaw  dropped  in  unison. 

"  Speak  low,"  she  said,  smiling. 

He  leaned  toward  her ;  she  drew  nearer,  in 
clining  her  pretty,  disheveled  head  with  its 


Absolution  69 


disordered  braids  curling  into  witchlocks  on 
her  shoulders. 

"  'Tain't  the  Special  Messenger,  ma'am,  is 
it  ? "  he  inquired  hoarsely.  "  The  boys  is 
tellin'  how  you  was  ketched  down  to " 

She  made  him  a  sign  for  silence  as  the 
officer  of  the  guard  came  up — an  ill-tempered, 
heavily-bandaged  young  man. 

"  What  the  — "  he  began,  but,  seeing  a 
woman's  muddy  skirt  in  the  lantern  light, 
checked  his  speech. 

The  corporal  whispered  in  his  ear ;  both 
stared.  "  I  guess  it's  all  right,"  said  the  officer. 
"  Won't  you  come  in  ?  The  general  is  asleep ; 
he's  got  half  an  hour  more,  but  I'll  wake  him 
if  you  say  so." 

"  I  can  wait  half  an  hour." 

"  Take  her  horse,"  said  the  officer  briefly, 
then  led  the  way  up  the  steps  of  a  white  porch 
buried  under  trumpet  vines  in  heavy  bloom. 

The  door  stood  open,  so  did  every  window 
on  the  ground  floor,  for  the  July  night  was 
hot.  A  sentry  stood  inside  the  wide  hall,  rest 
ing  on  his  rifle,  sleeves  rolled  to  his  elbows, 
cap  pushed  back  on  his  flushed  young  fore 
head. 

There  was  a  candle  burning  in  the  room  on 


yo  Special  Messenger 

the  right;  an  old  artillery  officer  leaned  over 
the  center  table,  asleep,  round,  red  face  buried 
in  his  arms,  sabre  tucked  snugly  between  his 
legs,  like  the  tail  of  a  sleeping  dog;  an  aide- 
de-camp  slept  heavily  on  a  mahogany  sofa, 
jacket  unbuttoned,  showing  the  white,  power 
ful  muscles  of  his  chest,  all  glistening  with 
perspiration.  Beside  the  open  window  sat  a 
thin  figure  in  the  uniform  of  a  signal  officer, 
and  at  first  when  the  Special  Messenger  looked 
at  him  she  thought  he  also  was  asleep. 

Then,  as  though  her  entrance  had  awakened 
him,  he  straightened  up,  passed  one  long  hand 
over  his  face,  looked  at  her  through  the  candle 
light,  and  rose  with  a  grace  too  unconscious 
not  to  have  been  inherited. 

The  bandaged  officer  of  the  guard  made  a 
slovenly  gesture,  half  salute,  half  indicative: 
"  The  Messenger,"  he  announced,  and,  half 
turning  on  his  heel  as  he  left  the  room,  "  our 
signal  officer,  Captain  West,"  in  deference  to 
a  convention  almost  forgotten. 

Captain  West  drew  forward  an  armchair ; 
the  Special  Messenger  sank  into  its  tufted 
depths  and  stripped  the  gauntlets  from  her 
sun-tanned  hands — narrow  hands,  smooth  as 
a  child's,  now  wearily  coiling  up  the  lustrous 


Absolution  71 


braids  which  sagged  to  her  shoulders  under 
the  felt  riding  hat.  And  all  the  while,  from 
beneath  level  brows,  her  dark,  distrait  eyes 
were  wandering  from  the  signal  officer  to  the 
sleeping  major  of  artillery,  to  the  aide  snoring 
on  the  sofa,  to  the  trumpet  vines  hanging  mo 
tionless  outside  the  open  window.  But  all  she 
really  saw  was  Captain  West. 

He  appeared  somewhat  young  and  thin,  his 
blond  hair  and  mustache  were  burned  hay- 
color.  He  was  adjusting  eyeglasses  to  a  nar 
row,  well-cut  nose;  under  a  scanty  mustache 
his  mouth  had  fallen  into  pleasant  lines,  the 
nearsighted  eyes,  now  regarding  her  normally 
from  behind  the  glasses,  seemed  clear,  un 
usually  pleasant,  even  a  trifle  mischievous. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  "  he 
asked  respectfully. 

"  After  the  general  is  awake — if  I  might 
have  the  use  of  a  room — and  a  little  fresh 
water — "  Speech  died  in  her  throat;  some 
of  the  color  died  in  her  face,  too. 

"  Did  you  wish  me  to  awake  him  now  ?  If 
your  business  is  urgent  I  will,"  said  Captain 
West. 

She  did  not  reply;  an  imperceptible  twitch 
ing  tightened  her  lips ;  then  the  young  mouth 


72  Special  Messenger 

relaxed,  drooping  a  trifle  at  the  corners. 
Lying  there,  so  outwardly  calm,  her  tired,  far 
away  gaze  fixed  absently  on  him,  she  seemed 
on  the  verge  of  slumber. 

"  If  your  business  is  urgent,"  he  was  repeat 
ing  pleasantly.  But  she  made  no  answer. 

Urgent  ?  No,  not  now.  It  had  been  urgent 
a  second  or  two  ago.  But  not  now.  There 
was  time — time  to  lie  there  looking  at  him, 
time  to  try  to  realize  such  things  as  triumph, 
accomplishment,  the  excitement  of  achieve 
ment  ;  time  to  relax  from  the  long,  long  strain 
and  lie  nerveless,  without  strength,  yielding 
languidly  to  the  reaction  from  a  task  well 
done. 

So  this  was  success?  A  pitiful  curiosity 
made  her  eyes  wistful  for  an  instant.  Suc 
cess?  It  had  not  come  as  she  expected. 

Was  her  long  quest  over?  Was  this  the 
finish?  Had  all  ended  here — here  at  head 
quarters,  whither  she  had  returned  to  take  up, 
patiently,  the  lost  trail  once  more? 

Her  dark  gaze  rested  on  this  man  dreamily ; 
but  her  heart,  after  its  first  painful  bound  of 
astonishment,  was  beating  now  with  heavy, 
sickened  intelligence.  The  triumph  had  come 
too  suddenly. 


Absolution  73 


"  Are  you  hungry  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  was  not  hungry.  There  was  a  bucket 
of  water  and  a  soldier's  tin  cup  on  the  window 
sill ;  and,  forestalling  him  instinctively,  she 
reached  over,  plunged  the  cup  into  the  tepid 
depths  and  drank. 

"  I  was  going  to  offer  you  some,"  he  said, 
amused ;  and  over  the  brimming  cup  she  smiled 
back,  shuddering. 

"  If  you  care  to  lie  down  for  a  few  moments 
I'll  move  that  youngster  off  the  sofa,"  he  sug 
gested. 

But  fatigue  had  vanished;  she  was  terribly 
awake  now. 

"  Can't  you  sleep?  You  are  white  as  death. 
I'll  call  you  in  an  hour,"  he  ventured  gently, 
with  that  soft  quality  in  his  voice  which 
sounded  so  terrible  in  her  ears — so  dreadful 
that  she  sat  up  in  an  uncontrollable  tremor  of 
revolt. 

"  What  did  you  ask  me?  " 

"  I  thought  you  might  wish  to  sleep  for  half 
an  hour " 

Sleep?  She  shook  her  head,  wondering 
whether  sleep  would  be  more  merciful  to  her 
at  this  time  to-morrow — or  the  next  day — or 
ever  again.  And  all  the  time,  apparently  in- 


74  Special  Messenger 

different  and  distrait,  she  was  studying  every 
detail  of  this  man;  his  lean  features,  his  lean 
limbs,  his  thin,  muscular  hands,  his  uniform, 
the  slim,  light  sabre  which  he  balanced  with 
both  hands  across  his  angular  knees ;  the 
spurred  boots,  well  groomed  and  well  fitted; 
the  polished  cross-straps  supporting  field 
glasses  and  holster. 

"  Are  you  the  famous  Special  Messenger? — 
if  it  is  not  a  military  indiscretion  to  name  you," 
he  asked,  with  a  glint  of  humor  in  his  pleasant 
eyes.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though  something 
else  glimmered  there,  too — the  faintest  flash 
of  amused  recklessness,  as  though  gayly  daring 
any  destiny  that  might  menace.  He  was 
younger  than  she  had  thought,  and  it  sickened 
her  to  realize  that  he  was  quite  as  amiably 
conscious  of  her  as  any  well-bred  man  may 
be  who  permits  himself  to  recognize  the  charm 
of  an  attractive  woman.  All  at  once  a  deathly 
feeling  came  over  her — faintness,.  which  passed 
— repugnance,  which  gave  birth  to  a  desperate 
hope.  The  hope  flickered;  only  the  mo 
mentary  necessity  for  self-persuasion  kept  it 
alive.  She  must  give  him  every  chance ;  she 
must  take  from  him  none.  Not  that  for  one 
instant  she  was  afraid  of  herself — of  failing 


Absolution  75 


in  duty;  she  understood  that  she  could  not. 
But  she  had  not  expected  this  moment  to  come 
in  such  a  fashion.  No ;  there  was  more  for 
her  to  do,  a  chance — barely  a  miracle  of 
chance —  that  she  might  be  mistaken. 

"  Why  do  you  think  I  am  the  Special 
Messenger,  Captain  West  ?  " 

There  was  no  sign  of  inward  tumult  under 
her  smooth,  flushed  mask  as  she  lay  back, 
elbows  set  on  the  chair's  padded  arms,  hands 
clasped  together.  Over  them  she  gazed 
serenely  at  the  signal  officer.  And  he  looked 
back  at  her. 

"  Other  spies  come  to  headquarters,"  he 
said,  "  but  you  are  the  only  one  so  far  who 
embodies  my  ideal  of  the  highly  mysterious 
Special  Messenger." 

"Do  I  appear  mysterious?" 

"  Not  unattractively  so,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  I  have  heard,"  she  said,  "  that  the  Union 
spy  whom  they  call  the  Special  Messenger  is 
middle-aged  and  fat." 

"  I've  heard  that,  too,"  he  nodded,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  gray  eyes — "  and  I've  heard  also 
that  she's  red-headed,  peppered  with  freckles, 
and — according  to  report — bow-legged  from 
too  many  cross-saddles." 


76  Special  Messenger 

"  Please  observe  my  single  spur,"  she  said, 
extending  her  slender,  booted  foot ;  "  and  you 
will  notice  that  I  don't  fit  that  passport." 

"  My  idea  of  her  passport  itemizes  every 
feature  you  possess,"  he  said,  laughing ;  "  five 
feet  seven;  dark  hair,  brown  eyes,  regular 
features,  small,  well-shaped  hands " 

"  Please— Captain  West !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — "  very  serious. 

"  I  am  not  offended.  .  .  .  What  time  is  it, 
if  you  please  ?  " 

He  lifted  the  candle,  looked  closely  at  his 
watch  and  informed  her;  she  expressed  dis 
belief,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  for  the 
watch.  He  may  not  have  noticed  it;  he  re 
turned  the  watch  to  his  pocket. 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  very  thoughtful. 
Her  glimpse  of  the  monogram  on  the  back  of 
the  watch  had  not  lasted  long  enough.  Was  it 
an  M  or  a  W  she  had  seen  ? 

The  room  was  hot;  the  aide  on  the  sofa 
ceased  snoring;  one  spurred  heel  had  fallen 
to  the  floor,  where  it  trailed  limply.  Once  or 
twice  he  muttered  nonsense  in  his  sleep. 

The  major  of  artillery  grunted,  lifted  a 
congested  face  from  the  cradle  of  his  folded 
arms,  blinked  at  them  stupidly,  then  his  heavy, 


Absolution  77 


close-clipped  head  fell  into  his  arms  again. 
The  candle  glimmered  on  his  tarnished  shoul 
der  straps. 

A  few  moments  later  a  door  at  the  end  of 
the  room  creaked  and  a  fully-lathered  visage 
protruded.  Two  gimlet  eyes  surveyed  the 
scene;  a  mouth  all  awry  from  a  sabre-slash 
closed  grimly  as  Captain  West  rose  to  atten 
tion. 

"  Is  there  any  fresh  water  ?  "  asked  the  gen 
eral.  "  There's  a  dead  mouse  in  this  pail." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  aide  awoke, 
got  onto  his  feet,  took  the  pail,  and  wandered 
off  into  the  house  somewhere ;  the  artillery 
officer  rose  with  a  dreadful  yawn,  and  picked 
up  his  forage  cap  and  gauntlets. 

Then  he  yawned  again,  showing  every  yel 
low  tooth  in  his  head. 

The  general  opened  his  door  wider,  stand 
ing  wiry  and  erect  in  boots  and  breeches.  His 
flannel  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat;  lather 
covered  his  features,  making  the  distorted 
smile  that  crept  over  them  unusually  hideous. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said  to  the 
Special  Messenger ;  "  come  in  while  I  shave. 
West,  is  there  anything  to  eat  ?  All  right ;  I'm 
ready  for  it.  Come  in,  Messenger,  come  in !  " 


78  Special  Messenger 

She  entered,  closing  the  bedroom  door ;  the 
general  shook  hands  with  her  slyly,  saying, 
"  I'm  devilish  glad  you  got  through,  ma'am. 
Have  any  trouble  down  below  ?  " 

"  Some,  General." 

He  nodded  and  began  to  shave ;  she  stripped 
off  her  tight  outer  jacket,  laid  it  on  the  table, 
and,  ripping  the  lining  stitches,  extracted  some 
maps  and  shreds  of  soft  paper  covered  with 
notes  and  figures. 

Over  these,  half  shaved,  the  general  stooped, 
razor  in  hand,  eyes  following  her  forefinger  as 
she  traced  in  silence  the  lines  she  had  drawn. 
There  was  no  need  for  her  to  speak,  no  rea 
son  for  him  to  inquire ;  her  maps  were  per 
fectly  clear,  every  route  named,  every  regi 
ment,  every  battery  labeled,  every  total  added 
up. 

Without  a  word  she  called  his  attention  to 
the  railroad  and  the  note  regarding  the  num 
ber  of  trains. 

"  We've  got  to  get  at  it,  somehow,"  he  said. 
"What  are  those?" 

"  Siege  batteries,  General — on  the  march." 

His  mutilated  mouth  relaxed  into  a  grin. 

"  They  seem  to  be  allfired  sure  of  us.  What 
are  they  saying  down  below  ?  " 


They  seem  to  be  allfired  sure  of  us. 


Absolution  79 


"  They  talk  of  being  in  Washington  by  the 
fifteenth,  sir." 

"  Oh.  .  .  .  What's  that  topographical  sym 
bol — here  ?  "  placing  one  finger  on  the  map. 

"  That  is  the  Moray  Mansion — or  was." 

"  Was?  " 

"  Our  cavalry  burned  it  two  weeks  ago 
Thursday." 

"  Find  anything  to  help  you  there  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

The  general  returned  to  his  shaving,  com 
pleted  it,  came  back  and  examined  the  papers 
again. 

"  That  infantry,  there,"  he  said,  "  are  you 
sure  it's  Longstreet's  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  You  didn't  see  Longstreet,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and  talked  with  him." 

The  general's  body  servant  knocked,  an 
nouncing  breakfast,  and  left  the  general's 
boots  and  tunic,  both  carefully  brushed. 
When  he  had  gone  out  again,  the  Special 
Messenger  said  very  quietly : 

"  I  expect  to  report  on  the  Moray  matter 
before  night." 

The  general  buckled  in  his  belt  and  hooked 
up  his  sword. 


8o  Special  Messenger 

"  If  you  can  nail  that  fellow,"  he  said, 
speaking  very  slowly,  "  I  guess  you  can  come 
pretty  close  to  getting  whatever  you  ask  for 
from  Washington." 

For  a  moment  she  stood  very  silent  there, 
her  ripped  jacket  hanging  limp  over  her  arm ; 
then,  with  a  pallid  smile: 

"  Anything  I  ask  for  ?  Did  you  say  that, 
sir?" 

He  nodded. 

"  Even  if  I  ask  for — his  pardon  ?  " 

The  general  laughed  a  distorted  laugh. 

"  I  guess  we'll  bar  that,"  he  said.  "  Will 
you  breakfast,  ma'am  ?  The  next  room  is  free, 
if  you  want  it." 

Headquarters  bugles  began  to  sound  as 
she  crossed  the  hall,  jacket  dangling  over 
her  arm,  and  pushed  open  the  door  of  a  dark 
ened  room.  The  air  within  was  Stirling,  she 
opened  a  window  and  thrust  back  the  blinds, 
and  at  the  same  moment  the  ringing  crack 
of  a  rifled  cannon  shattered  the  silence  of 
dawn.  Very,  very  far  away  a  dull  boom 
replied. 

Outside,  in  dusky  obscurity,  cavalry  were 
mounting;  a  trooper,  pumping  water  from  a 
well  under  her  window,  sang  quietly  to  him- 


Absolution  81 


self  in  an  undertone  as  he  worked,  then  went 
off  carrying  two  brimming  buckets. 

The  sour,  burned  stench  of  stale  campfires 
tainted  the  morning  freshness. 

She  leaned  on  the  sill,  looking  out  into  the 
east.  Somewhere  yonder,  high  against  the 
sky,  they  were  signaling  with  torches.  She 
watched  the  red  flames  swinging  to  right,  to 
left,  dipping,  circling;  other  sparks  broke  out 
to  the  north,  where  two  army  corps  were  talk 
ing  to  each  other  with  fire. 

As  the  sky  turned  gray,  one  by  one  the 
forest-shrouded  hills  took  shape ;  details  began 
to  appear;  woodlands  grew  out  of  fathomless 
shadows,  fields,  fences,  a  rocky  hillock  close 
by,  trees  in  an  orchard,  some  Sibley  tents. 

And  with  the  coming  of  day  a  widening 
murmur  grew  out  of  the  invisible,  a  swelling 
monotone  through  which,  incessantly,  near 
and  distant,  broken,  cheery  little  flurries  of 
bugle  music,  and  far  and  farther  still,  where 
mists  hung  over  a  vast  hollow  in  the  hills,  the 
dropping  shots  of  the  outposts  thickened  to  a 
steady  patter,  running  backward  and  forward, 
from  east  to  west,  as  far  as  the  ear  could  hear. 

A  soldier  brought  her  some  breakfast ;  later 
he  came  again  with  her  saddlebags  and  a  big 


82  Special  Messenger 

bucket  of  fresh  water,  taking  away,  her  riding 
habit  and  boots,  which  she  thrust  at  him  from 
the  half-closed  door. 

Her  bath  was  primitive  enough ;  a  sheet 
from  the  bed  dried  her,  the  saddlebags  yielded 
some  fresh  linen,  a  pair  of  silk  stockings  and  a 
comb. 

Sitting  there  behind  closed  blinds,  her 
smooth  body  swathed  to  the  waist  in  a  sheet, 
she  combed  out  the  glossy  masses  of  her  hair 
before  braiding  them  once  more  around  her 
temples;  and  her  dark  eyes  watched  daylight 
brighten  between  the  slits  in  the  blinds. 

The  cannonade  was  gradually  becoming 
tremendous,  the  guns  tuning  up  by  batteries. 
There  was,  however,  as  yet,  no  platoon  firing 
distinguishable  through  the  sustained  crackle 
of  the  fusillade;  columns  of  dust,  hanging 
above  fields  and  woodlands,  marked  the 
courses  of  every  northern  road  where  wagons 
and  troops  were  already  moving  west  and 
south ;  the  fog  from  the  cannon  turned  the 
rising  sun  to  a  pulsating,  cherry-tinted  globe. 

There  was  no  bird  music  now  from  the 
orchard;  here  and  there  a  scared  oriole  or 
robin  flashed  through  the  trees,  winging  its 
frightened  way  out  of  pandemonium. 


Absolution  83 


The  cavalry  horses  of  the  escort  hung  their 
heads,  as  though  dully  enduring  the  uproar; 
the  horses  of  the  field  ambulances  parked  near 
the  orchard  were  being  backed  into  the  shafts ; 
the  band  of  an  infantry  regiment,  instruments 
flashing  dully,  marched  up,  halted,  deposited 
trombone,  clarion  and  bass  drum  on  the  grass 
and  were  told  off  as  stretcher-bearers  by  a 
smart,  Irish  sergeant,  who  wore  his  cap  over 
one  ear. 

The  shock  of  the  cannonade  was  terrific; 
the  Special  Messenger,  buttoning  her  fresh 
linen,  winced  as  window  and  door  quivered 
under  the  pounding  uproar.  Then,  dressed  at 
last,  she  opened  the  shaking  blinds  and,  seat 
ing  herself  by  the  window,  laid  her  riding 
jacket  across  her  knees. 

There  were  rents  and  rips  in  sleeve  and 
body,  but  she  was  not  going  to  sew.  On  the 
contrary,  she  felt  about  with  delicate,  tentative 
fingers,  searching  through  the  loosened  lining 
until  she  found  what  she  was  looking  for,  and, 
extracting  it,  laid  it  on  her  knees — a  photo 
graph,  in  a  thin  gold  oval,  covered  with  glass. 

The  portrait  was  that  of  a  young  man — thin, 
quaintly  amused,  looking  out  of  the  frame  at 
her  from  behind  his  spectacles.  The  mustache 
7 


84  Special  Messenger 


appeared  to  be  slighter,  the  hair  a  trifle  longer 
than  the  mustache  and  hair  worn  by  the  signal 
officer,  Captain  West.  Otherwise,  it  was  the 
man.  And  hope  died  in  her  breast  without  a 
flicker. 

Sitting  there  by  the  shaking  window,  with 
the  daguerreotype  in  her  clasped  hands,  she 
looked  at  the  summer  sky,  now  all  stained  and 
polluted  by  smoke;  the  uproar  of  the  guns 
seemed  to  be  shaking  her  reason,  the  tumult 
within  her  brain  had  become  chaos,  and  she 
scarcely  knew  what  she  did  as,  drawing  on 
both  gauntlets  and  fastening  her  soft  riding 
hat,  she  passed  through  the  house  to  the  porch, 
where  the  staff  officers  were  already  climbing 
into  their  saddles.  But  the  general,  catching 
sight  of  her  face  at  the  door,  swung  his  horse 
and  dismounted,  and  came  clanking  back  into 
the  deserted  hallway  where  she  stood. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked,  lowering  his  voice 
so  she  could  hear  him  under  the  din  of  the 
cannonade. 

"  The  Moray  matter.  ...  I  want  two 
troopers  detailed." 

"  Have  you  nailed  him  ?  " 

"Yes— I—"  She  faltered,  staring  fas 
cinated  at  the  distorted  face,  marred  by  a 


Absolution  85 


sabre  to  the  hideousness  of  doom  itself.  "  Yes, 
I  think  so.  I  want  two  troopers — Burke 
and  Campbell,  of  the  escort,  if  you  don't 
mind " 

"  You  can  have  a  regiment !     Is  it  far  ?  " 

"  No."  She  steadied  her  voice  with  an 
effort. 

"  Near  my  headquarters  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Damnation !  "  he  blazed  out,  and  the  oath 
seemed  to  shock  her  to  self-mastery. 

"  Don't  ask  me  now,"  she  said.  "  If  it's 
Moray,  I'll  get  him.  .  .  .  What  are  those 
troops  over  there,  General  ?  "  pointing  through 
the  doorway. 

"  The  Excelsiors — Irish  Brigade." 

She  nodded  carelessly.  "  And  where  are 
the  signal  men?  Where  is  your  signal  officer 
stationed — Captain " 

"  Do  you  mean  West  ?  He's  over  on  that 
knob,  talking  to  Wilcox  with  flags.  See  him, 
up  there  against  the  sky  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

The  general's  gimlet  eyes  seemed  to  bore 
through  her.  "  Is  that  all?  " 

"  All,  thank  you,"  she  motioned  with  dry 
lips. 


86  Special  Messenger 

"  Are  you  properly  fixed  ?  What  do  you 
carry — a  revolver  ?  " 

She  nodded  in  silence. 

"  All  right.  Your  troopers  will  be  waiting 
outside.  .  .  .  Get  him,  in  one  way  or  another ; 
do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

A  few  moments  later  the  staff  galloped  off 
and  the  escort  clattered  behind,  minus  two 
troopers,  who  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  veranda 
in  their  blue-and-yellow  shell  jackets,  carbines 
slung,  poking  at  the  grass  with  the  edges  of 
their  battered  steel  scabbards. 

The  Special  Messenger  came  out  presently, 
and  the  two  troopers  rose  to  salute.  All 
around  her  thundered  the  guns ;  sky  and  earth 
were  trembling  as  he  led  the  way  through 
an  orchard  heavy  with  green  fruit.  A  volun 
teer  nurse  was  gathering  the  hard  little  apples 
for  cooking;  she  turned,  her  apron  full,  as 
the  Special  Messenger  passed,  and  the  two 
women,  both  young,  looked  at  one  another 
through  the  sunshine — looked,  and  turned 
away,  each  to  her  appointed  destiny. 

Smoke,  drifting  back  from  the  batteries,  be 
came  thicker  beyond  the  orchard.  Not  very 
far  away  the  ruddy  sparkle  of  exploding  Con- 


Absolution  87 


federate  shells  lighted  the  obscurity.  Farther 
beyond  the  flames  of  the  Union  guns  danced 
red  through  the  cannon  gloom. 

Higher  on  the  hill,  however,  the  air  became 
clearer ;  a  man  outlined  in  the  void  was  swing 
ing  signal  flags  against  the  sky. 

"  Wait  here,"  said  the  Special  Messenger  to 
Troopers  Burke  and  Campbell,  and  they  un- 
slung  carbines,  and  leaned  quietly  against 
their  feeding  horses,  watching  her  climb  the 
crest. 

The  crest  was  bathed  in  early  sunlight,  an 
aerial  island  jutting  up  above  a  smoky  sea. 
From  the  terrible,  veiled  maelstrom  roaring 
below,  battle  thunder  reverberated  and  the 
lightning  of  the  guns  flared  incessantly. 

For  a  moment,  poised,  she  looked  down  into 
the  inferno,  striving  to  penetrate  the  hollow, 
then  glanced  out  beyond,  over  fields  and  woods 
where  sunlight  patched  the  world  beyond  the 
edges  of  the  dark  pall. 

Behind  her  Captain  West,  field  glasses 
leveled,  seemed  to  be  intent  upon  his  own 
business. 

She  sat  down  on  the  grassy  acclivity.  Be 
low  her,  far  below,  Confederate  shells  were 
constantly  striking  the  base  of  the  hill.  A 


Special  Messenger 


mile  away  black  squares  checkered  a  slope; 
beyond  the  squares  a  wood  was  suddenly 
belted  with  smoke,  and  behind  her  she  heard 
the  swinging  signal  flags  begin  to  whistle  and 
snap  in  the  hill  wind.  She  had  sat  there  a 
long  while  before  Captain  West  spoke  to  her, 
standing  tall  and  thin  beside  her;  some  half- 
serious,  half-humorous  pleasantry — nothing 
for  her  to  answer.  But  she  looked  up  into  his 
face,  and  he  became  silent,  and  after  a  while 
he  moved  away. 

A  little  while  later  the  artillery  duel  sub 
sided  and  finally  died  out  abruptly,  leaving  a 
comparative  calm,  broken  only  by  slow  and 
very  deliberate  picket  firing. 

The  signal  men  laid  aside  their  soiled  flags 
and  began  munching  hardtack ;  Captain  West 
came  over,  bringing  his  own  rations  to  offer 
,  her,  but  she  refused  with  a  gesture,  sitting 
there,  chin  propped  in  her  palms,  elbows  in 
denting  her  knees. 

"  Are  you  not  hungry  or  thirsty  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  No." 

He  had  carelessly  seated  himself  on  the 
natural  rocky  parapet,  spurred  boots  dangling 
over  space.  For  one  wild  instant  she  hoped 


Absolution  89 


he  might  slip  and  fall  headlong — and  his  blood 
be  upon  the  hands  of  his  Maker. 

Sitting  near  one  another  they  remained 
silent,  restless-eyed,  brooding  above  the  battle- 
scarred  world.  As  he  rose  to  go  he  spoke 
once  or  twice  to  her  with  that  haunting  soft 
ness  of  voice  which  had  begun  to  torture  her ; 
but  her  replies  were  very  brief;  and  he  said 
nothing  more. 

At  intervals  during  the  afternoon  orderlies 
came  to  the  hill;  one  or  two  general  officers 
and  their  staffs  arrived  for  brief  consultations, 
and  departed  at  a  sharp  gallop  down  hill. 

About  three  o'clock  there  came  an  unex 
pected  roar  of  artillery  from  the  Union  left; 
minute  by  minute  the  racket  swelled  as  battery 
after  battery  joined  in  the  din. 

Behind  her  the  signal  flags  were  fluttering 
wildly  once  more ;  a  priest,  standing  near  her, 
turned  nodding: 

"  Our  boys  will  be  going  in  before  sun 
down,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Are  you  Father  Corby,  chaplain  of  the 
Excelsiors  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam." 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  went  away  knee-deep 
through  the  windy  hill-grasses;  white  butter- 


go  Special  Messenger 

flies  whirled  around  him  as  he  strode,  head 
on  his  breast;  the  swift  hill  swallows  soared 
and  skimmed  along  the  edges  of  the  smoke  as 
though  inviting  him.  From  her  rocky  height 
she  saw  the  priest  enter  the  drifting  clouds. 

A  man  going  to  his  consecrated  duty.  And 
she  ?  Where  lay  her  duty  ?  And  why  was  she 
not  about  it? 

"  Captain  West !  "  she  called  in  a  clear,  hard 
voice. 

Seated  on  his  perch  above  the  abyss,  the 
officer  lowered  his  field  glasses  and  turned  his 
face.  Then  he  rose  and  moved  over  to  where 
she  was  sitting.  She  stood  up  at  once. 

"  Will  you  walk  as  far  as  those  trees  with 
me  ?  "  she  asked.  There  was  a  strained  ring 
to  her  voice. 

He  wheeled,  spoke  briefly  to  a  sergeant, 
then,  with  that  subtle  and  pleasant  deference 
which  characterized  him,  he  turned  and  fell 
into  step  beside  her. 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  ?  "  he  asked 
softly. 

"  No.  ...  God  help  us  both." 

He  halted.  At  a  nod  from  her,  two  troopers 
standing  beside  their  quietly  browsing  horses, 
cocked  carbines.  The  sharp,  steel  click  of  the 


"Then,  like  a  flash  his  hand  fell  to  his  holster,  and  it  was 
1     empty." 


Absolution  91 


locks  was  perfectly  audible  through  the  din  of 
the  cannon. 

The  signal  officer  looked  at  her;  and  her 
face  was  whiter  than  his. 

"  You  are  Warren  Moray — I  think,"  she 
said. 

His  eyes  glimmered  like  a  bayonet  in  sun 
light  ;  then  the  old  half-gay,  half-defiant  smile 
flickered  over  his  face. 

"  Special  Messenger,"  he  said,  "  you  come 
as  a  dark  envoy  for  me.  Now  I  understand 
your  beauty — Angel  of  Death." 

"Are  you  Major  Moray?"  She  could 
scarcely  speak. 

He  smiled,  glanced  at  the  two-  troopers,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  Then,  like  a  flash  his 
hand  fell  to  his  holster,  and  it  was  empty ;  and 
his  pistol  glimmered  in  her  hand. 

"  For  God's  sake  don't  touch  your  sabre- 
hilt  !  "  she  said.  ..."  Unclasp  your  belt !  Let 
it  fall !  " 

"  Can't  you  give  me  a  chance  with  those 
cavalrymen  ?  " 

"  I  can't.    You  know  it." 

"  Yes ;  I  know." 

There  was  a  silence;  the  loosened  belt  fell 
to  the  grass,  the  sabre  clashing.  He  looked 


92  Special  Messenger 

coolly  at  the  troopers,  at  her,  and  then  out 
across  the  smoke. 

"  This  way  ?  "  he  said,  as  though  to  him 
self.  "  I  never  thought  it."  His  voice  was 
quiet  and  pleasant,  with  a  slight  touch  of 
curiosity  in  it. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  "  he  asked  simply, 
turning  to  her  again. 

She  stood  leaning  back  against  a  tree,  try 
ing  to  keep  her  eyes  fixed  on  him  through  the 
swimming  weakness  invading  mind  and  body. 

"  I  suppose  this  ends  it  all,"  he  added 
absently ;  and  touched  the  sabre  lying  in  the 
grass  with  the  tip  of  his  spurred  boot. 

"  Did  you  look  for  any  other  ending,  Mr. 
Moray  ?  " 

"  Yes— I  did." 

"  How  could  you,  coming  into  our  ranks 
with  a  dead  man's  commission  and  forged 
papers ?  How  long  did  you  think  it  could  last? 
Were  you  mad  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  wistfully,  smiled,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"  Not  mad,  unless  you  are.  Your  risks  are 
greater  than  were  mine." 

She  straightened  up,  stepped  toward  him, 
very  pale. 


Absolution  93 


"Will  you  come?"  she  asked.  "I  am 
sorry." 

"  I  am  sorry — for  us  both,"  he  said  gently. 
"  Yes,  I  will  come.  Send  those  troopers 
away." 

"  I  cannot." 

"  Yes,  you  can.     I  give  my  word  of  honor." 

She  hesitated;  a  bright  flush  stained  his 
face. 

"  I  take  your  word,"  she  murmured. 

A  moment  later  the  troopers  mounted  and 
cantered  off  down  the  hill,  veering  wide  to 
skirt  the  head  of  a  column  of  infantry  march 
ing  in;  and  when  the  Special  Messenger 
started  to  return  she  found  masses  of  men 
threatening  to  separate  her  from  her  prisoner 
— sunburnt,  sweating,  dirty-faced  men,  clutch 
ing  their  rifle-butts  with  red  hands. 

Their  officers  rode  ahead,  thrashing  through 
the  moist  grass ;  a  forest  of  bayonets  swayed 
in  the  sun;  flag  after  flag  passed,  slanting 
above  the  masses  of  blue. 

She  and  her  prisoner  looked  on ;  the  flag  of 
the  63d  New  York  swept  by ;  the  flags  of  the 
6o,th  and  88th  followed.  A  moment  later  the 
columns  halted. 

"  Your    Excelsiors,"    said    Moray    calmly. 


94  Special  Messenger 

"  They're  under  fire  already.  Shall  we  move 
on?" 

A  soldier  in  the  ranks,  standing  with  or 
dered  arms,  fell  straight  backward,  heavily; 
a  corporal  near  them  doubled  up  with  a  grunt. 

The  Special  Messenger  heard  bullets  smack 
ing  on  rocks;  heard  their  dull  impact  as  they 
struck  living  bodies ;  saw  them  knock  men  flat. 
Meanwhile  the  flags  drooped  above  the  halted 
ranks,  their  folds  stirred  lazily,  fell,  and 
scarcely  moved ;  the  platoon  fire  rolled  on  un 
broken  somewhere  out  in  the  smoke  yonder. 

"  God  send  me  a  bullet,"  said  Moray.  .  .  . 
"  Why  do  you  stay  here  ?  " 

"  To — give  you — that  chance." 

"  You  run  it,  too." 

"  I  hope  so.    I  am  very — tired." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  reddening. 

She  said  fiercely :  "  I  wish  it  were  over.  .  .  . 
Life  is  cruel.  ...  I  suppose  we  must  move 
on.  Will  you  come,  please  ?  " 

"  Yes — my  dark  messenger,"  he  said  under 
his  breath,  and  smiled. 

A  priest  passed  them  in  the  smoke;  her 
prisoner  raised  his  hand  to  the  visor  of  his  cap. 

"  Father  Corby,  their  chaplain/'  she  mur 
mured. 


Absolution  95 


"  Attention !  Attention !  "  a  far  voice  cried, 
and  the  warning  ran  from  rank  to  rank,  taken 
up  in  turn  by  officer  after  officer.  Father 
Corby  was  climbing  to  the  summit  of  a  mound 
close  by;  an  order  rang  out,  bugles  repeated 
it,  and  the  blue  ranks  faced  their  chaplain. 

Then  the  priest  from  his  rocky  pulpit  raised 
his  ringing  voice  in  explanation.  He  told  the 
three  regiments  of  the  Irish  Brigade — now 
scarcely  more  than  three  battalions  of  two 
companies  each — that  every  soldier  there  could 
receive  the  benefit  of  absolution  by  making  a 
sincere  act  of  contrition  and  resolving,  on  first 
opportunity,  to  confess. 

He  told  them  that  they  were  going  to  be  sent 
into  battle;  he  urged  them  to  do  their  duty; 
reminded  them  of  the  high  and  sacred  nature 
of  their  trust  as  soldiers  of  the  Republic,  and 
ended  by  warning  them  that  the  Catholic 
Church  refuses  Christian  burial  to  him  who 
deserts  his  flag. 

In  the  deep,  battle-filled  silence  the  priest 
raised  up  his  hands;  three  regiments  sank 
to  their  knees  as  a  single  man,  and  the  Spe 
cial  Messenger  and  her  prisoner  knelt  with 
them. 

"  Dominus  noster  Jesus   Christus  vos   ab- 


96  Special  Messenger 

solvat,  et  ego,  auctoritate  ipius,  vos  absolve 
ab  omvir  vinculo " 

The  thunder  of  the  guns  drowned  the 
priest's  voice  for  a  moment,  then  it  sounded 
again,  firm  and  clear: 

"  Absolvo  vos  a  peccatis " 

The  roar  of  battle  blotted  out  the  words ; 
then  again  they  rang  out : 

"In  nomine  Patris,  et  Filii,  et  Spiritus 
Sancti!  .  .  .  Amen." 

The  officers  had  remounted  now,  their 
horses  plunging  in  the  smoke;  the  flags  were 
moving  forward ;  rivers  of  bayonets  flowed  out 
into  the  maelstrom  where  the  red  lightning 
played  incessantly.  Then  from  their  front 
crashed  out  the  first  volley  of  the  Irish 
Brigade. 

"  Forward !  Forward !  "  shouted  their  of 
ficers.  Men  were  falling  everywhere ;  a  dying 
horse  kicked  a  whole  file  into  confusion. 
Suddenly  a  shell  fell  in  their  midst,  another, 
another,  tearing  fiery  right  of  way. 

The  Special  Messenger,  on  her  knees  in  the 
smoke,  looked  up  and  around  as  a  priest  bent 
above  her. 

"  Child,"  he  said,  "  what  are  you  doing 
here?"  And  then  his  worn  gaze  fell  on  the 


Absolution  97 


dead  man  who  lay  in  the  grass  staring  sky 
ward  through  his  broken  eyeglasses  with 
pleasant,  sightless  eyes. 

The  Special  Messenger,  white  to  the  lips, 
looked  up :  "  We  were  on  our  knees  together, 
Father  Corby.  You  had  said  the  amen,  and 
the  bullet  struck  him — here!  .  .  .  He  had  no 
chance  for  confession.  .  .  .  But  you  said " 

Her  voice  failed. 

The  priest  looked  at  her ;  she  took  the  dead 
man's  right  hand  in  hers. 

"  He  was  a  brave  man,  Father.  .  .  .  And 
you  said — you  said — about  those  who  fell 
fighting  for — their  own  land — absolution — 
Christian  burial " 

She  choked,  set  her  teeth  in  her  under  lip 
and  looked  down  at  the  dead.  The  priest 
knelt,  too. 

"  Is — is  all  well  with  him  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Surely,  child " 

"  But — his   was   the — other   flag." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Father?" 

"  I  know — I  know.  .  .  .  The  banner  of 
Christ  is  broader.  .  .  .  You  say  he  was  kneel 
ing  here  beside  you  ?  " 

"  Here — so  close  that  I  touched  him.  , 


Special  Messenger 


And  then  you  said.  .  .  .  Christian  burial — 
absolution " 

"  He  was  a  spy?" 

"What  am  I,  Father?" 

"  Absolved,  child — like  this  poor  boy,  here 
at  your  feet.  .  .  .  What  is  that  locket  in  your 
hand?" 

"  His  picture.  ...  I  found  it  in  his  house 
when  the  cavalry  were  setting  fire  to  it.  ... 
Oh,  I  am  tired  of  it  all — deathly,  deathly  sick ! 
.  .  .  Look  at  him  lying  here  ?  Father,  Father, 
is  there  no  end  to  death  ?  " 

The  priest  rose  wearily;  through  the  back- 
drifting  smoke  the  long  battle  line  of  the  Ex 
celsiors  wavered  like  phantoms  in  the  mist. 
Six  flags  flapped  ghostlike  above  them,  behind 
them  men  writhed  in  the  trampled,  bloody 
grass ;  before  them  the  sheeted  volleys  rushed 
outward  into  darkness,  where  the  dull  battle 
lightning  played. 

A  maimed,  scorched,  blackened  thing  in  the 
grass  near  by  was  calling  on  Christ ;  the  priest 
went  to  him,  turning  once  on  his  way  to  look 
back  where  the  Special  Messenger  knelt  beside 
a  dead  man  who  lay  smiling  at  nothing 
through  his  shattered  eyeglasses. 


IV 


ROMANCE 


HE  Volunteer  Nurse  sighed  and 
spread  out  her  slender,  iodine- 
stained  fingers  on  both  knees, 
looking  down  at  them  reflec 
tively. 

"  It  is  different  now,"  she  said ;  "  sentiment 
dies  under  the  scalpel.  In  the  filth  and  squalor 
of  reality  neither  the  belief  in  romance  nor 
the  capacity  for  desiring  it  endure  long.  .  .  . 
Even  pity  becomes  atrophied — or  at  least 
a  reflex  habit;  sympathy,  sorrow,  remain 
as  mechanical  reactions,  not  spontaneous 
8  99 


ioo  Special  Messenger 

emotions.  .  .  .  You  can  understand  that, 
dear?" 

"  Partly,"  said  the  Special  Messenger,  rais 
ing  her  dark  eyes  to  her  old  schoolmate. 

"  In  the  beginning,"  said  the  Nurse,  dream 
ily,  "  the  men  in  their  uniforms,  the  drums  and 
horses  and  glitter,  and  the  flags  passing,  and 
youth — youth — not  that  you  and  I  are  yet  old 
in  years ;  do  you  know  what  I  mean  ?  " 

"  I  know,"  said  the  Special  Messenger, 
smoothing  out  her  riding  gloves.  "  Do  you  re 
member  the  cadets  at  Oxley?  You  loved  one 
of  them." 

"  Yes ;  you  know  how  it  was  in  the  cities ; 
and  even  afterward  in  Washington — I  mean 
the  hospitals  after  Bull  Run.  Young  bravery 
— the  Zouaves — the  multicolored  guard  regi 
ments — and  a  romance  in  every  death !  "  She 
laid  one  stained  hand  over  the  other,  ringers 
still  wide.  "  But  here  in  this  blackened  horror 
they  call  the  '  seat  of  war  ' — this  festering  bull 
pen,  choked  with  dreary  regiments,  all  alike, 
all  in  filthy  blue — here  individuals  vanish,  men 
vanish.  The  schoolgirl  dream  of  man  dies 
here  forever.  Only  unwashed,  naked  duty 
remains ;  and  its  inspiration,  man — bloody, 
dirty,  vermin-covered,  terrible  —  sometimes ; 


Romance  101 

and  sometimes  whimpering,  terrified,  flinching, 
base,  bereft  of  all  his  sex's  glamour,  all  his 
mystery,  shorn  of  authority,  devoid  of  pride, 
pitiable,  screaming  under  the  knife. — It  is  dif 
ferent  now,"  said  the  pretty  Volunteer  Nurse. 
— "  The  war  kills  more  than  human  life." 

The  Special  Messenger  drew  her  buckskin 
gloves  carefully  through  her  belt  and  buttoned 
the  holster  of  her  revolver. 

"  I  have  seen  war,  too,"  she  said ;  "  and  the 
men  who  dealt  death  and  the  men  who  re 
ceived  it.  Their  mystery  remains — the  glam 
our  of  a  man  remains  for  me — because  he  is  a 
man." 

"  I  have  heard  them  crying  like  children  in 
the  stretchers." 

"  So  have  I.    That  solves  nothing." 

But  the  Nurse  went  on : 

"  And  in  the  wards  they  are  sometimes 
something  betwixt  devils  and  children.  All 
the  weakness  and  failings  they  attribute  to 
women  come  out  in  them — fear,  timidity,  in 
consequence,  greed,  malice,  gossip!  And,  as 
for  courage — I  tell  you,  women  bear  pain 
better." 

"  Yes,  I  have  learned  that.  ...  It  is  not 
difficult  to  beguile  them  either ;  to  lead  them,  to 


102  Special  Messenger 

read  them.  That  is  part  of  my  work.  I  do  it. 
I  know  they  are  afraid  in  battle — the  intelli 
gent  ones.  Yet  they  fight.  I  know  they  are 
really  children — impulsive,  passionate,  selfish, 
often  cruel — but,  after  all,  they  are  here  fight 
ing  this  war — here  encamped  all  around  us 
throughout  these  hills  and  forests.  .  .  .  They 
have  lost  none  of  their  glamour  for  me. 
Their  mystery  remains." 

The  Volunteer  Nurse  looked  up  with  a  tired 
smile : 

"  You  always  were  emotional,  dear." 

"  I  am  still." 

"  You  don't  have  to  drain  wounds  and  dry 
out  sores  and  do  the  thousand  unspeakable  of 
fices  that  we  do." 

"  Why  do  you  do  them  ?  " 

"  I  have  to." 

"  You  didn't  have  to  enlist.    Why  did  you  ?  " 

"  Why  do  the  men  enlist  ? "  asked  the 
Nurse.  "  That's  why  you  and  I  did — what 
ever  the  motive  may  have  been,  God  knows. 
.  .  .  And  it's  killed  part  of  me.  .  .  .  You 
don't  cleanse  ulcers." 

"  No ;  I  am  not  fitted.  I  tried  ;  and  lost  none 
of  the  romance  in  me.  Only  it  happens  that  I 
can  do — what  I  am  doing — better." 


Romance  103 


The  Nurse  looked  at  her  a  trifle  awed. 

"  To  think,  dear,  that  you  should  turn  out 
to  be  the  celebrated  Special  Messenger.  You 
were  timid  in  school." 

"  I  am  now.  .  .  .  You  don't  know  how 
afraid  a  woman  can  be.  Suppose  in  school — 
suppose  that  for  one  moment  we  could  have 
foreseen  our  destiny — here  together,  you  and 
I,  as  we  are  now." 

The  Nurse  looked  into  the  stained  hollow  of 
her  right  hand. 

"  I  had  the  lines  read  once,"  she  said  drear 
ily,  "  but  nobody  ever  said  I'd  be  here,  or  that 
there'd  be  any  war."  And  she  continued  to 
examine  her  palm  with  a  hurt  expression  in 
her  blue  eyes. 

The  Special  Messenger  laughed,  and  her 
lovely,  pale  face  lighted  up  with  color. 

"  Don't  you  really  think  you  are  ever  going 
to  be  capable  of  caring  for  a  man  again  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  know  now  how  they're 
fashioned,  how  they  think — how — how  revolt 
ing  they  can  be.  ...  No,  no !  It's  all  gone — 
all  the  ideals,  all  the  dreams.  .  .  .  Good  Heav 
ens,  how  romantic — how  senseless  we  were  in 
school !  " 

"  I  am  still,"  said  the   Special   Messenger 


104  Special  Messenger 

thoughtfully.  "  I  like  men.  ...  A  man — the 
right  one — could  easily  make  me  love  him. 
And  I  am  afraid  there  are  more  than  one 
'  right  one.'  I  have  often  been  on  the  senti 
mental  border.  .  .  .  But  they  died,  or  went 
away — or  I  did.  .  .  .  The  trouble  with  me  is, 
as  you  say,  that  I  am  emotional,  and  very, 
very  tender-hearted.  ...  It  is  sometimes  dif 
ficult  to  be  loyal — to  care  for  duty — to  care 
for  the  Union  more  than  for  a  man.  Not 
that  there  is  any  danger  of  my  proving  un 
true " 

"  No,"  murmured  the  Nurse ;  "  loyalty  is 
your  inheritance." 

"  Yes,  we — "  she  named  her  family  under 
her  breath — "  are  traditionally  trustworthy.  It 
is  part  of  us — our  race  was  always,  will  always 
be.  ...  But — to  see  a  man  near  death — and 
to  care  for  him  a  little — even  a  rebel — and  to 
know  that  one  word  might  save  him — only  one 
little  disloyal  word !  " 

"  No  man  would  save  you  at  that  expense," 
said  the  Nurse  disdainfully.  "  I  know  men." 

"  Do  you  ?  I  don't — in  that  way.  There 
was  once  an  officer — a  non-combatant.  I 
could  have  loved  him.  .  .  .  Once  there  was 
a  Confederate  cavalryman.  I  struck  him 


Romance  105 

senseless  with  my  revolver-butt — and  I  might 
have — cared  for  him.  He  was  very  young. 
...  I  never  can  forget  him.  It  is  hard,  dear, 
the  business  I  am  engaged  in.  ...  But  it  has 
never  spoiled  my  interest  in  men — or  my  capa 
city  for  loving  one  of  them.  I  am  afraid  I  am 
easily  moved." 

She  rose  and  stood  erect,  to  adjust  her  soft 
riding  hat,  her  youthfully  slender  figure  in 
charming  relief  against  the  window. 

"  Won't  you  let  me  brew  a  little  tea  for 
you  ?  "  asked  the  Nurse.  "  Don't  leave  me  so 
soon." 

"  When  do  you  go  on  duty  ?  " 

"  In  about  ten  minutes.  It  will  be  easier  to 
morrow,  when  we  send  our  sick  North.  Will 
you  come  in  to-morrow  ?  " 

The  Special  Messenger  shook  her  head 
dreamily. 

"  I  don't  know — I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Good- 
by." 

"  Are  you  going  on  duty  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"When?" 

"  Now." 

The  Nurse  rose  and  put  both  arms  around 
her. 


io6  Special  Messenger 

"  I  am  so  afraid  for  you,"  she  said ;  "  and  it 
has  been  so  good  to  see  you.  ...  I  don't 
know  whether  we'll  ever  meet  again " 

Her  voice  was  obliterated  in  the  noisy  out 
burst  of  bugles  sounding  the  noon  sick-call. 

They  went  out  together,  where  the  Messen 
ger's  horse  was  tied  under  the  trees.  Beyond, 
through  the  pines,  glimmered  the  tents  of  an 
emergency  hospital.  And  now,  in  the  open 
air  not  very  far  away,  they  could  hear  picket 
firing. 

"  Do  be  careful,"  said  the  blue-eyed  Nurse. 
''  They  say  you  do  such  audacious  things ;  and 
every  day  somebody  says  you  have  been  taken, 
or  hanged,  or  shot.  Dear,  you  are  so  young 
and  so  pretty " 

"  So  are  you.  Don't  catch  fever  or  small 
pox  or  die  from  a  scratch  from  a  poisoned 
knife.  .  .  .  Good-by  once  more." 

They  kissed  each  other.  A  hospital  orderly, 
passing  hurriedly,  stopped  to  hold  her  stirrup ; 
she  mounted,  thanked  the  orderly,  waved  a 
smiling  adieu  to  her  old  schoolmate,  and, 
swinging  her  powerful  horse  westward,  trotted 
off  through  the  woods,  passing  the  camp  sen 
tinels  with  a  nod  and  a  low-spoken  word. 

Farther  out  in  the  woods  she  encountered 


Romance  107 

the  first  line  of  pickets;  showed  her  creden 
tials,  then  urged  her  horse  forward  at  a  gallop. 

"  Not  that  way !  "  shouted  an  officer,  start 
ing  to  run  after  her ;  "  the  Johnnies  are  out 
there !  " 

She  turned  in  her  saddle  and  nodded  reas 
suringly,  then  spurred  on  again,  expecting  to 
jump  the  Union  advance-guard  every  moment. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  firing  anywhere  in 
the  vicinity ;  nothing  to  be  seen  but  dusky  pine 
woods ;  and  after  she  had  advanced  almost  to 
the  edge  of  a  little  clearing,  and  not  encounter 
ing  the  outer  line  of  Union  pickets,  she  drew 
bridle  and  sat  stock  still  in  her  saddle,  search 
ing  in  every  direction  with  alert  eyes. 

Nothing  moved ;  the  heated  scent  of  the 
Southern  pines  hung  heavy  in  the  forest;  in 
the  long,  dry  swale-grass  of  the  clearing,  yel 
low  butterflies  were  flying  lazily ;  on  a  dead 
branch  above  her  a  huge  woodpecker,  with 
pointed,  silky  cap,  uttered  a  querulous  cry 
from  moment  to  moment. 

She  strained  her  dainty,  close-set  ears;  no 
sound  of  man  stirred  in  this  wilderness — only 
the  lonely  bird-cry  from  above ;  only  the  cease 
less  monotone  of  the  pine  crests  stirred  by 
some  high  breeze  unfelt  below. 


io8  Special  Messenger 

A  forest  path,  apparently  leading  west,  at 
tracted  her  attention ;  into  this  she  steered  her 
horse  and  continued,  even  after  her  compass 
had  warned  her  that  the  path  was  now  run 
ning  directly  south. 

The  tree-growth  was  younger  here ;  thickets 
of  laurel  and  holly  grew  in  the  undergrowth, 
and,  attempting  a  short  cut  out,  she  became 
entangled.  For  a  few  minutes  her  horse, 
stung  by  the  holly,  thrashed  and  floundered 
about  in  the  maze  of  tough  stems ;  and  when 
at  last  she  got  him  free,  she  was  on  the  edge 
of  another  clearing — a  burned  one,  lying  like 
a  path  of  black  velvet  in  the  sun.  A  cabin 
stood  at  the  farther  edge. 

Three  forest  bridle  paths  ran  west,  east,  and 
south  from  this  blackened  clearing.  She  un 
buttoned  her  waist,  drew  out  a  map,  and,  flat 
tening  it  on  her  pommel,  bent  above  it  in  eager 
silence.  And,  as  she  sat  studying  her  map,  she 
became  aware  of  a  tremor  in  the  solid  earth 
under  her  horse's  feet.  It  grew  to  a  dull  jar 
ring  vibration — nearer — nearer — nearer — and 
she  hastily  backed  her  horse  into  the  depths 
of  the  laurel,  sprang  to  the  ground,  and 
placed  both  gauntleted  hands  over  her  horse's 
nostrils. 


Romance  109 

A  moment  later  the  Confederate  cavalry 
swept  through  the  clearing  at  a  trot — a  jaunty, 
gray  column,  riding  two  abreast,  then  falling 
into  single  file  as  they  entered  the  bridle  path 
at  a  canter. 

She  watched  them  as  they  flashed  by  among 
the  pines,  sitting  their  horses  beautifully,  the 
wind  lifting  the  broad  brims  of  their  soft 
hats,  the  sun  a  bar  of  gold  across  each  sun 
burned  face. 

There  were  only  a  hundred  of  them — prob 
ably  some  of  Ashby's  old  riders,  for  they 
seemed  strangely  familiar — but  it  was  not 
long  before  they  had  passed  on  their  gay 
course,  and  the  last  tremor  in  the  forest  soil 
— the  last  distant  rattle  of  sabre  and  carbine 
— died  away  in  the  forest  silence. 

What  were  they  doing  here?  She  did  not 
know.  There  seemed  no  logical  reason  for 
the  presence  of  Stuart's  troopers. 

For  a  while,  awaiting  their  possible  collision 
with  the  Union  outposts,  she  listened,  expect 
ing  the  far  rattle  of  rifles.  No  sound  came. 
They  must  have  sheered  off  east.  So,  very 
calmly  she  addressed  herself  to  the  task  in 
hand. 

This  must  be  the  burned  clearing ;  her  map 


no  Special  Messenger 

and  the  cabin  corroborated  her  belief.  Then 
it  was  here  that  she  was  to  meet  this  unknown 
man  in  Confederate  uniform  and  Union  pay — 
a  spy  like  herself — and  give  him  certain  in 
formation  and  receive  certain  information  in 
return. 

Her  instructions  had  been  unusually  rigid; 
she  was  to  take  every  precaution;  use  native 
disguise  whether  or  not  it  might  appear  neces 
sary,  carry  no  papers,  and  let  any  man  she 
might  encounter  make  the  advances  until  she 
was  absolutely  certain  of  him.  For  there  was 
an  ugly  rumor  afloat  that  the  man  she  ex 
pected  had  been  caught  and  hanged,  and  that 
a  Confederate  might  attempt  to  impersonate 
him.  So  she  looked  very  carefully  at  her 
map,  then  out  of  the  thicket  at  the  burned 
clearing.  There  was  the  wretched  cabin 
named  as  rendezvous,  the  little  garden  patch 
with  standing  corn  and  beans,  and  here  and 
there  a  yellowing  squash. 

Why  had  the  passing  rebel  cavalry  left  all  that 
good  food  undisturbed? 

Fear,  which  within  her  was  always  latent, 
always  too  ready  to  influence  her  by  masquer 
ading  as  caution,  stirred  now.  For  almost  an 
hour  she  stood,  balancing  her  field  glasses 


Romance  in 

across  her  saddle,  eyes  focused  on  the  open 
cabin  door.  Nothing  stirred  there. 

At  last,  with  a  slight  shiver,  she  opened  her 
saddle  bags  and  drew  out  the  dress  she  meant 
to  wear — a  dingy,  earth-colored  thing  of  ging 
ham. 

Deep  in  the  thicket  she  undressed,  folded 
her  fine  linen  and  silken  stockings,  laid  them 
away  in  the  saddle  bags  together  with  waist 
and  skirt,  field  glasses,  gauntlets,  and  whip, 
and  the  map  and  papers,  which  latter,  while 
affording  no  information  to  the  enemy,  would 
certainly  serve  to  convict  her. 

Dressed  now  in  the  scanty,  colorless  cloth 
ing  of  a  "  poor  white "  of  the  pine  woods, 
limbs  and  body  tanned  with  walnut,  her  slen 
der  feet  rubbed  in  dust  and  then  thrust  stock- 
ingless  into  shapeless  shoes,  she  let  down  the 
dark,  lustrous  mass  of  her  hair,  braided  it, 
tied  it  with  faded  ribbon,  rubbed  her  hands  in 
wood  mold  and  crushed  green  leaves  over 
them  till  they  seemed  all  stained  and  marred 
with  toil.  Then  she  gathered  an  armful  of 
splinter  wood. 

Now  ready,  she  tethered  her  horse,  leaving 
him  bitted  and  saddled ;  spread  out  his  sack  of 
feed,  turned  and  looked  once  more  at  the 


ii2  Special  Messenger 

cabin,  then  walked  noiselessly  to  the  clearing's 
edge,  carrying  her  aromatic  splinters. 

Underfoot,  as  she  crossed  it,  the  charred 
grass  crumbled  to  powder;  three  wild  doves 
flickered  up  into  flight,  making  a  soft  clatter 
and  displaying  the  four  white  feathers.  A 
quail  called  from  the  bean  patch. 

The  heat  was  intense  in  the  sun;  perspira 
tion  streaked  her  features;  her  tender  feet 
burned;  the  cabin  seemed  a  long  way  off,  a 
wavering  blot  through  the  dancing  heat  devils 
playing  above  the  fire-scorched  open. 

Head  bent,  she  moved  on  in  the  shiftless, 
hopeless  fashion  of  the  sort  of  humanity  she 
was  representing,  furtively  taking  her  bear 
ings  and  making  such  sidelong  observations 
as  she  dared.  To  know  the  shortest  way  back 
to  her  horse  might  mean  life  to  her.  She  un 
derstood  that.  Also  she  fully  realized  that  she 
might  at  that  very  instant  be  under  hostile 
observation.  In  her  easily  excited  imagina 
tion,  all  around  her  the  forest  seemed  to  con 
ceal  a  hundred  malevolent  eyes.  She  shivered 
slightly,  wiped  the  perspiration  from  her 
brow  with  one  small  bare  fist,  and  plodded 
on,  clutching  her  lightwood  to  her  rounded 
breast. 


Romance  113 

And  now  at  last  she  was  nearing  the  open 
cabin  door;  and  she  must  not  hesitate,  must 
show  no  suspicion.  So  she  went  in,  dragging 
her  clumsily-shod  feet. 

A  very  young  man  in  the  uniform  of  a  Con 
federate  cavalry  officer  was  seated  inside  be 
fore  the  empty  fireplace  of  baked  clay.  He 
had  a  bad  scar  on  his  temple.  She  looked  at 
him,  simulating  dull  surprise;  he  rose  and 
greeted  her  gracefully. 

"  Howdy,"  she  murmured  in  response,  still 
staring. 

"  Is  this  your  house  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Suh  ?  "  blankly. 

"  Is  this  your  house  ?  " 

"  I  reckon,"  she  nodded.  "  How  come  you- 
all  in  my  house  ?  " 

He  replied  with  another  question : 

"  What  were  you  doing  in  the  woods  ?  " 

"  "Lightwood,"  she  answered  briefly,  stack 
ing  the  fragrant  splinters  on  the  table. 

"  Do  you  live  here  all  alone?  " 

"  Reckon  I'm  alone  when  I  live  heah,"  sul 
lenly. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  He  had  a  trick  of 
coloring  easily. 

"  What  may  be  yoh  name,  suh  ?  "  she  re- 


ii4  Special  Messenger 

torted  with  a  little  flash  of  Southern  spirit, 
never  entirely  quenched  even  in  such  as  she 
seemed  to  be. 

Genuine  surprise  brought  the  red  back  into 
his  face  and  made  it,  worn  as  it  was,  seem 
almost  handsome.  The  curious  idea  came  to 
her  that  she  had  seen  him  before  somewhere. 
At  the  same  moment  speech  seemed  to  tremble 
on  his  lips ;  he  hesitated,  looked  at  her  with  a 
new  and  sudden  keenness,  and  stood  looking. 

"  I  expected  to  meet  somebody  here,"  he 
said  at  length. 

She  did  not  seem  to  comprehend. 

"  I  expected  to  meet  a  woman  here." 

"Who?     Me?"  incredulously. 

He  looked  her  over  carefully ;  looked  at  her 
dusty  bare  ankles,  at  her  walnut-smeared  face 
and  throat.  She  seemed  so  small,  so  round- 
shouldered — so  different  from  what  he  had 
expected.  They  had  said  that  the  woman  he 
must  find  was  pretty. 

"  Was  yuh-all  fixin'  to  meet  up  with  me?  " 
she  repeated  with  a  bold  laugh. 

"  I— don't  know,"  he  said.  "  By  the  Eter 
nal,  I  don't  know,  ma'am.  But  I'm  going  to 
find  out  in  right  smart  time.  Did  you  ever 
hear  anybody  speak  Latin  ?  " 


Romance  115 

"  Suh  ?  "  blankly ;  and  the  audacity  faded. 

"  Latin,"  he  repeated,  a  trifle  discomfited. 
"  For  instance,  '  sic  itur.'  Do  you  know  what 
'  sic  itur  '  means  ?  " 

"Sick— what,  suh?" 

"  '  Sic  itur! '  Oh,  Lord,  she  is  what  she 
looks  like !  "  he  exclaimed  in  frank  despair. 
He  walked  to  the  door,  wheeled  suddenly, 
came  back,  and  confronted  her. 

"  Either,  ma'am,  you  are  the  most  consum 
mate  actress  in  this  war  drama,  or  you  don't 
know  what  I'm  saying,  and  you  think  me 
crazy.  .  .  .  And  now  I'll  ask  you  once  for 
all:  Is  this  the  road?" 

The  Special  Messenger  looked  him  full  in 
the  eyes;  then,  as  by  magic,  the  loveliest  of 
smiles  transfigured  the  dull,  blank  features; 
her  round  shoulders,  pendulous  arms,  slouch 
ing  pose,  melted  into  superb  symmetry,  quick 
ening  with  grace  and  youth  as  she  straight 
ened  up  and  faced  him,  erect,  supple,  laughing, 
adorable. 

"  Sic  itur — ad  Astra,"  she  said  demurely, 
and  offered  him  her  hand.  "  Continue,"  she 
added. 

He  neither  stirred  nor  spoke;  a  deep  flush 
mounted  to  the  roots  of  his  short,  curly  hair. 
9 


n6  Special  Messenger 

She  smiled  encouragement,  thinking  him 
young  and  embarrassed,  and  a  trifle  chagrined. 

"  Continue  the  Latin  formula,"  she  nodded, 
laughing ;  "  what  follows,  if  you  please — 

"  Good  God !  "  he  broke  out  hoarsely. 

And  suddenly  she  knew  there  was  nothing 
to  follow  except  death — his  or  hers — realized 
she  made  an  awful  mistake — divined  in  one 
dreadful  instant  the  unsuspected  counter-mine 
beneath  her  very  feet — cried  out  as  she  struck 
him  full  in  the  face  with  clenched  fist,  sprang 
back,  whipping  the  revolver  from  her  ragged 
bodice,  dark  eyes  ablaze. 

"  Now,"  she  panted,  "  hands  high — and  turn 
your  back !  Quickly !  " 

He  stood  still,  very  pale,  one  sun-burned 
hand  covering  the  cheek  which  she  had  struck. 
There  was  blood  on  it.  He  heard  her  breath 
less  voice,  warning  him  to  obey,  but  he  only 
took  his  hand  from  his  face,  looked  at  the 
blood  on  palm  and  finger,  then  turned  his 
hopeless  eyes  on  her. 

"Too  late,"  he  said  heavily.  "  But— I'd 
rather  be  you  than  I.  ...  Look  out  of  that 
window,  Messenger !  " 

"  Put  up  your  hands !  " 

"  No." 


Romance  117 

"  Will  you  hold  up  your  hands !  " 

"  No,  Messenger.  .  .  .  And  I  —  didn't  — 
know  it  was  you  when  I  came  here.  It's — it's 
a  dirty  business — for  an  officer."  He  sank 
down  on  the  wooden  chair,  resting  his  head 
between  both  hands.  A  single  drop  of  blood 
fell  brightly  from  his  cut  cheek. 

The  Special  Messenger  stole  a  swift,  side 
long  glance  toward  the  window,  hesitated,  and, 
always  watching  him,  slid  along  the  wall  toward 
the  door,  menacing  him  at  every  step  with  lev 
eled  revolver.  Then,  at  the  door,  she  cast  one 
rapid  glance  at  the  open  field  behind  her  and 
around.  A  thrill  of  horror  stiffened  her.  The 
entire  circle  of  the  burned  clearing  was  ringed 
with  the  gray  pickets  of  rebel  cavalry. 

The  distant  men  sat  motionless  on  their 
horses,  carbine  on  thigh.  Here  and  there  a 
distant  horse  tossed  his  beautiful  head,  or  per 
haps  some  hat-brim  fluttered.  There  was  no 
other  movement,  not  one  sound. 

Crouching  to  pass  the  windows  beneath  the 
sills  she  crept,  heedless  of  her  prisoner,  to  the 
rear  door.  That  avenue  to  the  near  clustering 
woods  was  closed,  too ;  she  saw  the  glitter  of 
carbines  above  the  laurel. 

"  Special  Messenger  ?  "    She  turned  toward 


n8  Special  Messenger 

him,  pale  as  a  ghost.  "  I  reckon  we've  got 
you." 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

There  was  another  chair  by  the  table — the 
only  other  one.  She  seated  herself,  shaking 
all  over,  laid  her  revolver  on  the  table,  stared 
at  the  weapon,  pushed  it  from  her  with  a  ner 
vous  shudder,  and,  ashy  of  lip  and  cheek, 
looked  at  the  man  she  had  struck. 

"Will  they— hang  me?" 

"  I  reckon,  ma'am.  They  hung  the  other 
one — the  man  you  took  me  for." 

"  Will  there  be  a— trial  ?  " 

"  Drumhead.  .  .  .  They've  been  after  you 
a  long,  long  while." 

"  Then — what  are  you  waiting  for?  " 

He  was  silent. 

She  found  it  hard  to  control  the  nervous 
tremor  of  her  limbs  and  lips.  The  dryness  in 
her  throat  made  speech  difficult. 

"  Then — if  there  is  no  chance " 

He  bent  forward  swiftly  and  snatched  her 
revolver  from  the  table  as  her  small  hand  fell 
heavily  upon  the  spot  where  the  weapon  had 
rested. 

"  Would  you  do  that  ? "  he  said  in  a  low 
voice. 


Romance  119 

The  desperate  young  eyes  answered  him. 
And,  after  a  throbbing  silence :  "  Won't  you 
let  me  ?  "  she  asked.  "  It  is  indecent  to  h-hang 
a — woman — before — men " 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  Please — please — "  she  whispered,  "  give  it 
back  to  me — if  you  are  a — soldier.  .  .  .  You 
can  go  to  the  door  and  call  them.  .  .  .  No 
body  will  know.  .  .  .  You  can  turn  your  back. 
...  It  will  only  take  a  second !  " 

A  big  blue-bottle  fly  came  blundering  into 
the  room  and  filled  the  silence  with  its  noise. 
Years  ago  the  big  blue  flies  sometimes  came 
into  the  quiet  schoolroom ;  and  how  every 
body  giggled  when  the  taller  Miss  Poucher, 
bristling  from  her  prunella  shoes  to  her  stiff 
side-curls,  charged  indignantly  upon  the  buzz 
ing  intruder. 

Dry  -  eyed,  dry  -  lipped,  the  Messenger 
straightened  up,  quivering,  and  drew  a  quick, 
sharp  breath ;  then  her  head  fell  forward,  and, 
resting  inert  upon  the  table,  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  arms.  The  most  dangerous  spy  in 
the  Union  service — the  secret  agent  who  had 
worked  more  evil  to  the  Confederacy  than  any 
single  Union  army  corps — the  coolest,  most 
resourceful,  most  trusted  messenger  on  either 


i2o  Special  Messenger 

side  as  long  as  the  struggle  lasted — caught  at 
last. 

The  man,  young,  Southern,  and  a  gentle 
man's  son,  sat  staring  at  her.  He  had  driven 
his  finger-nails  deep  into  his  palms,  bitten  his 
underlip  till  it  was  raw. 

"  Messenger !  " 

She  made  no  response. 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  " 

Her  head,  prone  in  her  arms,  motioned  dull 
negation.  It  was  a  lie  and  he  knew  it.  He 
looked  at  the  slender  column  of  the  neck — 
stained  to  a  delicate  amber — at  the  nape;  and 
he  thought  of  the  rope  and  the  knot  under  the 
left  ear. 

"  Messenger,"  he  said  once  more.  "  I  did 
not  know  it  was  you  I  was  to  meet.  Look  at 
me,  in  God's  name !  " 

She  opened  her  eyes  on  him,  then  raised  her 
head. 

"  Do  you  know  me  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No." 

"  Look ! " 

He  touched  the  scar  on  his  forehead;  but 
there  was  no  recognition  in  her  eyes. 

"  Look,  I  tell  you !  "  he  repeated,  almost 
fiercely. 


Romance  121 

She  said  wearily :  "  I  have  seen  so  many 
men — so  many  men.  ...  I  can't  remember 
you." 

"  And  I  have  seen  many  women,  Messen 
ger  ;  but  I  have  never  forgotten  you — or  what 
you  did — or  what  you  did " 

"I?" 

"  You.  .  .  .  And  from  that  night  I  have 
lived  only  to  find  you  again.  And — oh,  God ! 
To  find  you  here !  My  Messenger !  My  little 
Messenger !  " 

"Who  are  you?"  she  whispered,  leaning  for 
ward  on  the  table,  dark  eyes  dilating  with  hope. 

He  sat  heavily  for  a  while,  head  bowed  as 
though  stunned  to  silence;  then  slowly  the 
white  misery  returned  to  his  face  and  he 
looked  up. 

"  So — after  all — you  have  forgotten.  And 
my  romance  is  dead." 

She  did  not  answer,  intent  now  on  every 
word,  every  shade  of  his  expression.  And,  as 
she  looked,  through  the  numbness  of  her  des 
peration,  hope  stirred  again,  stealthily. 

"  Are  you  a  friend  ?  "  Her  voice  scarcely 
sounded  at  all. 

"  Friends  die  for  each  other,"  he  said.  "  Do 
you  expect  that  of  me?" 


122  Special  Messenger 

The  silence  between  them  became  terrible ; 
and  at  last  he  broke  it  with  a  bitter  laugh : 

"  You.  once  turned  a  boy's  life  to  romance — 
riding  through  it — out  of  it — leaving  scars  on 
his  brow  and  heart — and  on  his  lips  the  touch 
of  your  own.  And  on  his  face  your  tears. 
Look  at  me  once  more !  " 

Her  breath  came  quicker;  far  within  her 
somewhere  memory  awoke,  groping  blindly 
for  light. 

"  Three  days  we  followed  you,"  he  said. 
"  On  the  Pennsylvania  line  we  cornered  you ; 
but  you  changed  garb  and  shape  and  speech, 
almost  under  our  eyes  —  as  a  chameleon 
changes  color,  matching  the  leaf  it  hides  on. 
...  I  halted  at  that  squatter's  house — sure  of 
you  at  last — and  the  pretty  squatter's  daugh 
ter  cooked  for  us  while  we  hunted  you  in  the 
hills — and  when  I  returned  she  gave  me  her 
bed  to  sleep  on 

Her  hand  caught  at  her  throat  and  she  half 
rose,  staring  at  him. 

"  Her  own  bed  to  sleep  on,"  he  repeated. 
"  And  I  had  been  three  days  in  the  saddle ; 
and  I  ate  what  she  set  before  me,  and  slept  on 
her  bed — fell  asleep — only  a  tired  boy,  not  a 
soldier  any  longer.  .  .  .  And  awoke  to  meet 


Romance  123 

your  startled  eyes — to  meet  the  blow  from 
your  revolver  butt  that  made  this  scar — to  fall 
back  bewildered  for  a  moment — half-stunned 
— Messenger !  Do  you  know  me  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

They  looked  breathlessly  at  one  another ; 
suddenly  a  hot  blush  covered  her  neck  and 
face ;  and  his  eyes  flashed  triumph. 

"  You  have  not  forgotten !  "  he  cried. 

And  there,  on  the  very  edge  of  death  itself, 
the  bright  shame  glowed  and  glowed  in  her 
cheeks,  and  her  distressed  eyes  fell  before  his. 

"  You  kissed  me,"  he  said,  looking  at  her. 

"  I — I  thought  I  had — killed  you — "  she 
stammered. 

"  And  you  kissed  me  on  the  lips.  ...  In 
that  moment  of  peril  you  waited  to  do  that. 
Your  tears  fell  on  my  face.  I  felt  them.  And 
I  tell  you  that,  even  had  I  been  lying  there 
dead  instead  of  partly  stunned,  I  would  have 
known  what  you  did  to  me  after  you  struck 
me  down." 

Her  head  sank  lower;  the  color  ran  riot 
from  throat  to  brow. 

He  spoke  again,  quietly,  yet  a  strange  un 
dertone  of  exaltation  thrilled  his  voice  and 
transfigured  the  thin,  war-worn  features  she 


124  Special  Messenger 

had  forgotten,  so  that,  as  she  lifted  her  eyes 
to  him  again,  the  same  boy  looked  back  at  her 
from  the  mist  of  the  long  dead  years. 

"  Messenger,"  he  said,  "  I  have  never  for 
gotten.  And  now  it  is  too  late  to  forget  your 
tears  on  my  face — the  touch  of  your  lips  on 
mine.  I  would  not  if  I  could.  ...  It  was 
worth  living  for  —  dying  for.  .  .  .  Once  —  I 
hoped — some  day — after  this — all  this  trouble 
ended — my  romance  might  come — true " 

The  boy  choked,  then : 

"  I  came  here  under  orders  to  take  a  woman 
spy  whose  password  was  the  key  to  a  Latin 
phrase.  But  until  you  stood  straight  in  your 
rags  and  smiled  at  me,  I  did  not  know  it  was 
you — I  did  not  know  I  was  to  take  the  Special 
Messenger !  Do  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  boy  colored  painfully.  Then  a  queer, 
pallid  change  came  over  his  face ;  he  rose,  bent 
over  her  where  she  rested  heavily  on  the  table : 

"  Little  Messenger,"  he  said,  "  I  am  in  your 
debt  for  two  blows  and  a  kiss." 

She  lifted  a  dazed  face  to  meet  his  gaze ;  he 
trembled,  leaned  down,  and  kissed  her  on  the 
mouth. 

Then  in  one  bound  he  was  at  the  door,  sig- 


Romance  125 

naling  his  troopers  with  drawn  sabre — as 
once,  long  ago,  she  had  seen  him  signal  them 
in  the  Northern  woods. 

And,  through  the  window,  she  saw  the  scat 
tered  cavalry  forming  column  at  a  gallop, 
obeying  every  sabre  signal,  trotting  forward, 
wheeling  fours  right — and  then — and  then! 
the  gray  column  swung  into  the  western  forest 
at  a  canter,  and  was  gone! 

The  boy  leaning  in  the  doorway  looked  back 
at  her  over  his  shoulder  and  sheathed  his 
sabre.  There  was  not  a  vestige  of  color  left 
in  his  face. 

"  Go !  "  he  said  hoarsely. 

"What?"  she  faltered. 

"  Go — go,  in  God's  name !  There's  a  door 
there!  Can't  you  see  it?" 

She  had  been  gone  for  a  full  hour  when  at 
last  he  turned  again.  A  bit  of  faded  ribbon 
from  her  hair  lay  on  the  table.  It  was  tied 
in  a  true  lover's  knot. 

He  walked  over,  looked  at  it,  drew  it 
through  his  buttonhole  and  went  slowly  back 
to  the  door  again.  For  a  long  while  he  stood 
there,  vague-eyed,  silent.  It  was  nearly  sun 
set  when  once  more  he  drew  his  sabre,  exam- 


126 


Special  Messenger 


ined  it  carefully,  bent  it  over  one  knee,  and 
snapped  the  blade  in  two. 

Then,  with  a  last  look  at  the  sky,  and  stand 
ing  very  erect,  he  closed  the  door,  set  his  back 
firmly  against  it,  drew  his  revolver,  and  looked 
curiously  into  the  muzzle. 

A  moment  later  the  racket  of  the  shot  echoed 
through  the  deserted  house. 


V 


RED   FERRY 

HEN  Private  Allen  of  Kay's 
Cavalry  deserted  with  head 
quarters'  dispatch  pouch,  and 
headed  straight  for  Dixie,  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  consterna 
tion  and  excitement  on  the  north  bank  of  the 
river,  and  a  considerable  amount  of  headlong 
riding.  But  on  the  tenth  day  he  slipped 
through  the  cordon,  got  into  the  woods,  and 
was  making  for  the  river  when  a  patrol  shot 
at  him  near  Gopher  Creek,  but  lost  him  in  the 
impenetrable  cypress  swamp  beyond. 
.  127 


128  Special  Messenger 


However,  the  pursuit  was  pushed  forward 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  enemy's  country; 
Kay's  troopers  patrolled  the  north  bank  of  the 
river  and  watched  every  road  and  ford ;  east 
and  west  Ripley's  and  Haynes's  brigades 
formed  impassable  curtains. 

Somewhere  in  this  vast  corral  lay  hidden  a 
desperate,  starving  man ;  and  it  was  only  a 
question  of  time  before  the  hunted  creature 
broke  cover  for  the  water. 

That  a  trooper  had  deserted  with  arms 
and  equipment  was  generally  known ;  but  that, 
in  his  nocturnal  flight,  he  had  also  taken 
vitally  important  papers  was  known  at  first 
only  to  Kay  and  later  to  the  Special  Messen 
ger,  who  was  sent  to  him  post-haste  from 
corps  headquarters  when  the  fugitive  headed 
for  the  river. 

Now,  the  south  bank  of  the  stream  being  in 
the  enemy's  territory,  Kay  had  not  ventured 
to  station  patrols  above  the  clay  banks  oppo 
site,  lest  rumor  of  invasion  bring  Stuart's 
riders  to  complicate  a  man  chase  and  the  man 
escape  in  the  confusion. 

And  he  explained  this  to  the  Special  Mes 
senger  at  their  first  conference. 

"  It  ought  to  be  guarded,"  insisted  the  Mes- 


Red  Ferry  129 

senger   tranquilly.     "  There   are   three   good 
fords  and  a  ferry  open  to  him." 

"  I  hold  the  fords  on  this  side,"  argued 
Kay ;  "  the  ferryboat  lies  in  the  eel-grass  on 
the  south  shore." 

"  Stuart's  riders  might  cross  if  they  heard 
of  this  trouble,  sir !  " 

"  And  if  they  see  Union  troops  on  the  south 
bank  they'll  cross,  sure  pop.  It  won't  do, 
Messenger.  If  that  fellow  attempts  the  fords 
we'll  catch  him,  sure ;  if  he  swims  we  may  get 
him  in  the  water.  The  Lord  knows  I  want 
him  badly,  but  I  dare  not  invite  trouble  by 
placing  vedettes  across  the  stream.  .  .  . 
There's  a  ferryman  over  there  I'm  worried 
about,  too.  He'd  probably  come  across  if 
Allen  hailed  him  from  the  woods.  .  .  .  And 
Allen  was  thick  with  him.  They  used  to  fish 
together.  Nobody  knows  what  they  hatched 
out  between  them.  It  worries  me,  I  can  tell 
you — that  ferry." 

The  Messenger  walked  to  the  tent  door  and 
looked  thoughtfully  at  the  woods  around  her. 
The  colonel  rose  from  his  camp  stool  and  fol 
lowed  her,  muttering: 

"  I  might  as  well  try  to  catch  a  weasel  in  a 
wall,  or  a  red  horse  in  the  mud ;  and  how  to 


130  Special  Messenger 

go  about  it  I  don't  know."  With  set  jaws 
and  an  angry  spot  glowing  in  his  gaunt 
cheeks,  he  stared  wickedly  around  him  and 
then  at  the  Messenger.  "  You  do  miracles, 
they  say.  Can't  you  do  one  now  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir.    Who  is  this  deserter  ?  " 

"  Roy  Allen — a  sullen,  unwilling  dog — al 
ways  malingering.  He's  spent  half  the  time 
in  the  guardhouse,  half  in  the  hospital,  since 
he  arrived  with  the  recruits.  Somebody  got 
an  idea  that  he'd  been  hit  by  the  sun,  but  it's 
all  bosh.  He's  a  bad  one — that's  all.  Can  you 
help  me  out  ?  " 

The  Messenger  nodded. 

"  You  say  he's  fond  of  fishing?  " 

"  Crazy  about  it.  He  was  often  detailed  to 
keep  us  in  food  when  rations  ran  low.  Then 
the  catfish  made  us  sick,  so  I  stopped  his  fish 
ing.  Then  he  took  French  leave." 

"  I  want  two  troopers  this  evening,  Colonel. 
May  I  have  them  ?  "  she  asked  thoughtfully. 
"  I'm  going  to  keep  house  at  Red  Ferry  for  a 
while." 

"  All  right,  ma'am.  Look  out  for  him ;  he's 
a  bad  one." 

But  the  Messenger  shook  her  head,  smiling. 

At  ten  o'clock  that  night  the  Special  Mes- 


Red  Ferry  131 

senger,  mounted  astride  and  followed  by  two 
cavalrymen  with  carbines,  rode  down  through 
the  river  mist  to  Bushy  Ford. 

Daintily  her  handsome  horse  set  foot  in 
the  water,  hesitated,  bent  his  long,  velvety 
neck,  sniffed,  and  finally  drank;  then,  satis 
fied,  stepped  quietly  forward,  hock-deep,  in  the 
swirling,  yellow  flood. 

"  Foller  them  stakes,  Miss,"  cautioned  the 
older  trooper ;  "  I  sot  'em  m'self ,  I  did." 

"  Thank  you.  Keep  close  to  me,  Connor. 
I've  crossed  here  before  it  was  staked." 

"  Sho ! "  exclaimed  Connor  under  his 
breath ;  "  she  do  beat  'em  all !  " 

Twice,  having  no  light  but  the  foggy  stars, 
they  missed  the  stakes  and  her  horse  had  to 
swim,  but  they  managed  to  flounder  safely 
back  to  the  ford  each  time;  and  after  a  little 
while  her  mount  rose,  straining  through  the 
red  mud  of  the  shore,  struggled,  scrambled 
madly,  and  drew  out,  dripping. 

Up  a  slippery,  crooked  ascent  they  rode,  out 
into  a  field  of  uncut  corn  above,  then,  spur 
ring,  swung  at  a  canter  eastward  along  the 
river. 

There  was  a  dim  light  in  the  ferry  house ;  a 
lubberly,  fat  man  ran  to  the  open  door  as  they 
10 


132  Special  Messenger 

drew  bridle  before  it.  When  the  fat  man  saw 
the  blue  troopers  he  backed  hastily  away  from 
the  sill !  and  the  Messenger  dismounted  and 
followed  him  into  the  house,  heavy  revolver 
swinging  in  her  gloved  hand. 

"  What'n  hell  y'goin'  to  do  to  me  ?  "  he  be 
gan  to  whimper ;  "  I  ain't  done  nothin'  " ;  but 
an  access  of  fright  strangled  him,  and  he  con 
tinued  to  back  away  from  her  until  he  landed 
flat  against  the  opposite  wall.  She  followed 
and  halted  before  him,  cocking  her  weapon, 
with  a  terrible  frown.  She  said  solemnly : 

"  I  want  you  to  answer  me  one  or  two 
questions,  and  if  you  lie  to  me  it  will  be  the 
last  time.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

He  nodded  and  moistened  his  thick  lips, 
gulping. 

"  Then  you  are  the  ferryman,  Snuyder,  are 
you  not?" 

He  nodded,  utterly  incapable  of  speech. 
She  went  on,  gloomily: 

"  You  used  to  fish  sometimes  with  a  Yankee 
recruit  named  Allen — Roy  Allen  ?  " 

"  Ye-s'm,"  he  sniveled.  ;'  There's  my  fish- 
pole  an'  his'n  layin'  onto  the  roof— 

"  How  did  he  hail  you  when  he  wanted  you 
to  come  across  to  take  him  fishing?  " 


Red  Ferry  133 

"  He  jest  come  down  to  the  shore  an'  hol 
lered  twicet " 

She  bent  closer,  scanning  his  dilated  eyes; 
speech  died  on  his  lips. 

"  How  did  he  call  to  you  at  night?" 

"  He  ain't  never  called  me  at  night — so  help 
me " 

"  No ;  but  in  case  he  ever  wished  to  fish  at 
night?  " 

The  man  began  to  stammer  and  protest,  but 
she  covered  him  suddenly,  and  her  dark  eyes 
struck  fire. 

"What  signal?"  she  asked  with  a  menac 
ing  ring  in  her  voice.  "  Quick !  " 

"  Cock-o'-the-pines !  ...  It  didn't  mean 
nothin',"  gasped  the  man ;  ..."  It  was  jest 
private — between  fishin'  friends " 

"  Go  on  !  " 

"  Yes'm.  ...  If  I  heard  a  cock-o'-the-pines 
squeal  I  was  to  squeal  back,  an'  then  he  was 
to  holler — jest  friendly — 'Hallo-oo!  How's 
fishin'  ?  '  That's  all,  ma'am " 

"  And  you  were  to  cross  ?  " 

"  Yes'm — jest  friendly  like.  Him  an'  me 
was  fond  o'  fishin' " 

"  I  see.  Sit  down  and  don't  move.  Nobody 
is  going  to  hurt  you." 


134  Special  Messenger 

She  went  to  the  door,  leisurely  uncock 
ing  her  revolver  and  pushing  it  through  her 
belt. 

"  Oh,  Connor,"  she  called  carelessly,  "  please 
mount  my  friend  Mr.  Snuyder  on  my  horse, 
take  him  across  the  ford,  and  detain  him  as 
my  guest  at  headquarters  until  I  return. 
Wait  a  second;  I'm  going  to  keep  my  saddle 
bags  with  me." 

And  a  few  minutes  later,  as  the  troopers 
rode  away  in  the  mist  with  their  prisoner,  her 
gentle  voice  followed  them : 

"  Don't  be  rough  with  him,  Connor.  Say  to 
the  colonel  that  there  is  no  harm  in  him  at  all, 
but  keep  him  in  sight  until  I  return ;  and 
don't  let  him  go  fishing !  " 

She  began  housekeeping  at  sunrise  by  tak 
ing  a  daring  bath  in  the  stream,  then,  dressing, 
she  made  careful  inventory  of  the  contents  of 
the  house  and  a  cautious  survey  of  the  imme 
diate  environment. 

The  premises,  so  unexpectedly  and  unwill 
ingly  abandoned  by  its  late  obese  tenant,  har 
bored,  besides  herself,  only  one  living  creature 
— a  fat  kitten. 

The  ferry  house  stood  above  the  dangerous 


Red  Ferry  135 

south  bank  of  the  river  in  a  grove  of  oaks, 
surrounded  for  miles  by  open  country. 

A  flight  of  rickety,  wooden  stairs  pitched 
downward  from  the  edge  of  the  grassy  bank 
to  a  wharf  at  the  water's  edge — the  mere 
skeleton  of  a  wharf  now,  outlined  only  by  de 
caying  stringpieces.  But  here  the  patched-up 
punt  was  moored;  and  above  it,  nailed  to  a 
dead  tree,  the  sign  with  its  huge  lettering  still 
remained : 


RED  FERRY 
HOLLER  TWICE 


sufficiently  distinct  to  be  deciphered  from  the 
opposite  shore.  Sooner  or  later  the  fugitive 
would  have  to  come  to  the  river.  Probably 
the  cavalry  would  catch  him  at  one  of  the 
fords,  or  some  rifleman  might  shoot  him  swim 
ming.  But,  if  he  did  not  know  the  fords,  and 
could  not  swim,  there  was  only  one  ferry  for 
him;  east,  west,  and  north  he  had  long  since 
been  walled  in.  The  chances  were  that  some 
night  a  cock-o'-the-pines  would  squeal  from 
the  woods  across  the  river,  and  then  she  knew 
what  to  do. 


136  Special  Messenger 

During  those  broiling  days  of  waiting  she 
had  leisure  enough.  Seated  outside  her 
shanty,  in  the  shade  of  the  trees,  where  she 
was  able  to  keep  watch  both  ways — south  for 
her  own  safety's  sake,  north  for  the  doomed 
man  —  she  occupied  herself  with  mending 
stockings  and  underwear,  raising  her  eyes  at 
intervals  to  sweep  the  landscape. 

Nobody  came  into  that  heated  desolation ; 
neither  voice  nor  gunshot  echoed  far  or  near. 
Day  after  day  the  foliage  of  the  trees  spread 
motionless  under  cloudless  skies ;  day  after 
day  the  oily  river  slipped  between  red  mud 
banks  in  heated  silence.  In  sky,  on  earth, 
nothing  stirred  except,  at  intervals,  some  buz 
zard  turning,  high  in  the  blinding  blue;  be 
low,  all  was  deathly  motionless,  save  when  a 
clotted  cake  of  red  clay  let  go,  sliding  greasily 
into  the  current.  At  dawn  the  sun  struck  the 
half-stunned  world  insensible  once  more;  no 
birds  stirred  even  at  sunset ;  all  the  little  crea 
tures  of  the  field  seemed  dead ;  her  kitten 
panted  in  its  slumbers. 

Every  night  the  river  fog  shrouded  the 
land,  wetting  the  parched  leaves ;  dew 
drummed  on  the  rotting  porch  like  the  steady 
patter  of  picket-firing;  the  widow  bird's  dis- 


Red  Ferry  137 

tracted  mourning  filled  the  silence;  the  kitten 
crept  to  its  food,  ate  indifferently,  then,  set 
tling  on  the  Messenger's  knees,  stared,  round- 
eyed,  at  the  dark.  But  always  at  dawn  the 
sun  burned  off  the  mist,  rising  in  stupefying 
splendor ;  the  oily  river  glided  on ;  not  a  leaf 
moved,  not  a  creature.  And  the  kitten  slept 
on  the  porch,  heedless  of  inviting  grass  stems 
whisked  for  her  and  the  ball  of  silk  rolled 
past  her  in  temptation. 

Half  lying  there,  propped  against  a  tree 
trunk  in  the  heated  shade,  cotton  bodice  open, 
sleeves  rolled  to  the  shoulders,  the  Special 
Messenger  mended  her  linen  with  languid  fin 
gers.  Perspiration  powdered  her  silky  skin 
from  brow  to  breast,  from  finger  to  elbow, 
shimmering  like  dew  when  she  moved.  Her 
dark  hair  fell,  unbound;  glossy  tendrils  of  it 
curled  on  her  shoulders,  framing  a  face  in 
which  nothing  as  yet  had  extinguished  the 
soft  loveliness  of  youth. 

At  times  she  talked  to  the  kitten  under  her 
breath ;  sometimes  hummed  an  old  song. 
Memories  kept  her  busy,  too,  at  moments 
quenching  the  brightness  of  her  eyes,  at  mo 
ments  twitching  the  edges  of  her  vivid  lips  till 
the  dreamy  smile  transfigured  her, 


138  Special  Messenger 

But  always  quietly  alert,  her  eyes  scanned 
land  and  river,  the  bank  opposite,  the  open 
fields  behind  her.  Once,  certain  of  a  second's 
safety,  she  relaxed  with  a  sigh,  stretching  out 
full  length  on  the  grass ;  and,  under  the  edge 
of  her  cotton  skirt,  the  metal  of  a  revolver 
glimmered  for  an  instant,  strapped  in  its  hol 
ster  below  her  right  knee. 

The  evening  of  the  fourth  day  was  cooler; 
the  kitten  hoisted  its  tail  for  the  first  time  in 
their  acquaintance,  and  betrayed  a  feeble  in 
terest  in  the  flight  of  a  white  dusk-moth  that 
came  hovering  around  the  porch  vines. 

"  Pussy,"  said  the  Messenger,  "  there's  ba 
con  in  that  well  pit;  I  am  going  to  make  a 
fire  and  fry  some." 

The  kitten  mewed  faintly. 

"  I  thought  you'd  approve,  dear.  Cold  food 
is  bad  in  hot  weather;  and  we'll  fry  a  little 
cornmeal,  too.  Shall  we?" 

The  kitten  on  its  small,  uncertain  legs  fol 
lowed  her  into  one  of  the  only  two  rooms. 
The  fat  tenant  of  the  hovel  had  left  some 
lightwood  and  kindling,  and  pots  and  pans 
necessary  for  such  an  existence  as  he  led  on 
earth. 

The   Messenger   twisted    up  her   hair   and 


Red  Ferry  139 

pinned  it ;  then  culinary  rites  began,  the  kitten 
breaking  into  a  thin  purring  when  an  odor  of 
bacon  filled  the  air. 

"  Poor  little  thing !  "  murmured  the  Messen 
ger,  going  to  the  door  for  a  brief  cautionary 
survey.  And,  coming  back,  she  lifted  the  fry 
pan  and  helped  the  kitten  first. 

They  were  still  eating  when  the  sun  set  and 
the  sudden  Southern  darkness  fell  over  woods 
and  fields  and  river.  A  splinter  of  lightwood 
flared  aromatically  in  an  old  tin  candlestick; 
by  its  smoky,  wavering  radiance  she  heated 
some  well  water,  cleaned  the  tin  plates, 
scoured  pan  and  kettle,  and  set  them  in  their 
humble  places  again. 

Then,  cleansing  her  hands  daintily,  she 
dried  them,  and  picked  up  her  sewing. 

For  her,  night  was  the  danger  time;  she 
could  not  avoid,  by  flight  across  the  river,  the 
approach  of  any  enemy  from  the  south ;  and 
for  an  enemy  to  discover  her  sitting  there  in 
darkness,  with  lightwood  in  the  house,  was 
to  invite  suspicion.  Yet  her  only  hope,  if  sur 
prised,  was  to  play  her  part  as  keeper  of  Red 
Ferry. 

So  she  sat  mending,  sensitive  ears  on  the 
alert,  breathing  quietly  in  the  refreshing  cool- 


140  Special  Messenger 

ness  that  at  last  had  come  after  so  many 
nights  of  dreadful  heat. 

The  kitten,  too,  enjoyed  it,  patting  with 
tentative  velvet  paw  the  skein  of  silk  dangling 
near  the  floor. 

But  it  was  a  very  little  kitten,  and  a  very 
lonely  one,  and  presently  it  asked,  plaintively, 
to  be  taken  up.  So  the  Messenger  lifted  the 
mite  of  fluffy  fur  and  installed  it  among  the 
linen  on  the  table,  where  it  went  to  sleep  purr 
ing. 

Outside  the  open  door  the  dew  drummed 
loudly ;  moths  came  in  clouds,  hovering  like 
snowflakes  about  the  doorway ;  somewhere  in 
the  woods  a  tiger  owl  yelped. 

About  midnight,  lying  on  her  sack  of  husks, 
close  to  the  borderland  of  sleep,  far  away  in 
the  darkness  she  heard  a  shot. 

In  one  bound  she  was  at  the  door,  button 
ing  her  waist,  and  listening.  And  still  listen 
ing,  she  lighted  a  pine  splinter,  raised  her  cot 
ton  skirt,  and  adjusted  the  revolver,  strapping 
the  holster  tighter  above  and  below  her  right 
knee. 

The  pulsing  seconds  passed;  far  above  the 
northern  river  bank  a  light  sparkled  through 
the  haze,  then  swung  aloft;  and  she  drew  pa- 


Red  Ferry  141 

per  and  pencil  from  her  pocket,  and  wrote 
down  what  the  torch  was  saying : 

"  Shot  fired  at  Muddy  Ford.  Look  out 
along  the  river." 

And  even  as  the  red  spark  went  out  in  the 
darkness  a  lonely  birdcall  floated  across  the 
river — the  strange  squealing  plaint  of  the 
great  cock-o'-the-pines.  She  answered,  imi 
tating  it  perfectly.  Then  a  far  voice  called : 

"  Hallo-o-o !     How's  fishin'  ?  " 

She  picked  up  her  pine  candle,  hurried  out 
to  the  bank  and  crept  cautiously  down  the 
crazy,  wooden  stairs.  Setting  her  torch  in  the 
iron  cage  at  the  bow,  she  cast  off  the  painter 
and,  standing  erect,  swung  the  long  pole. 
Out  into  obscurity  shot  the  punt,  deeper  and 
deeper  plunged  the  pole.  She  headed  up  river 
to  allow  for  the  current ;  the  cool  breeze  blew 
her  hair  and  bathed  her  bared  throat  and  arms 
deliciously ;  crimson  torchlight  flickered  criss 
cross  on  the  smooth  water  ahead. 

Every  muscle  in  her  body  was  in  play  now ; 
the  heavy  pole  slanted,  rose  and  plunged ;  the 
water  came  clip!  slap!  clap!  slap!  against  the 
square  bows,  dusting  her  with  spray. 

On,  on,  tossing  and  pitching  as  the  boat  hit 
the  swift,  deep,  center  current;  then  the  pole 


142  Special  Messenger 

struck  shallower  depths,  and  after  a  while  her 
torch  reddened  foliage  hanging  over  the 
northern  river  bank. 

She  drove  her  pole  into  the  clay  as  the 
punt's  bow  grated ;  a  Federal  cavalryman — a 
mere  lad — muddy  to  the  knees,  brier-torn,  and 
ghastly  pale,  waded  out  through  the  shallows, 
revolver  in  hand,  clambered  aboard,  and 
struck  the  torch  into  the  water. 

"  Take  me  over,"  he  gasped.  "  Hurry,  for 
God's  sake!  I  tell  you — 

"  Was  it  you  who  called  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Snuyder  sent  you,  didn't  he  ?  Don't 
stand  there  talking " 

With  a  nervous  stroke  she  drove  the  punt 
far  out  into  the  darkness,  then  fell  into  a 
measured,  swinging  motion,  standing  nearer 
the  stern  than  the  bow.  There  was  no  sound 
now  but  the  lapping  of  water  and  the  man's 
thick  breathing;  she  strove  to  pierce  the  dark 
ness  between  them,  but  she  could  see  only 
a  lumpish  shadow  in  the  bow  where  he 
crouched. 

"  I  reckon  you're  Roy  Allen,"  she  began, 
but  he  cut  her  short: 

"  Damn  it !    What's  that  to  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     Only  Snuyder's  gone." 


Red  Ferry  143 

"When?" 

"  Some  days  ago,  leaving  me  to  ferry  folk 
over.  .  .  .  He  told  me  how  to  answer  you 
when  you  called  like  a  cock-o'-the-pines." 

"  Did  he  ?  "  The  voice  was  subdued  and 
sullen. 

For  a  while  he  remained  motionless,  then, 
in  the  dull  light  of  the  fog-shrouded  stars  she 
saw  him  face  her,  and  caught  the  faint  spar 
kle  of  his  weapon  resting  on  his  knees,  cover 
ing  her. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said  fiercely,  "  that 
you  are  asking  a  good  many  questions. 
Which  side  pays  you  ?  " 

They  were  tossing  now  on  the  rapid  little 
waves  in  the  center  of  the  river;  she  had  all 
she  could  do  to  keep  the  punt  steady  and  drive 
it  toward  the  spot  where,  against  the  stars,  the 
oaks  lifted  their  clustered  crests. 

At  the  foot  of  the  wooden  stairs  she  tied  her 
boat,  and  offered  to  relight  the  pine  knot,  but 
he  would  not  have  it  and  made  her  grope  up 
the  ascent  before  him. 

Over  the  top  of  the  bank  she  led  him,  under 
the  trees,  to  her  door,  he  close  at  her  heels, 
revolver  in  hand.  And  there,  on  the  sill,  she 
faced  him. 


144  Special  Messenger 

"  What  do  you  want  here  ?  "  she  asked ; 
"supper?" 

"  Go  into  the  house  and  strike  a  light,"  he 
said,  and  followed  her  in.  And,  as  she  turned 
from  the  blazing  splinter,  he  caught  her  by 
the  arm,  feeling  roughly  for  a  concealed 
weapon.  Face  aflame,  she  struggled  out  of 
his  clutch ;  and  he  was  as  red  as  she  as  they 
confronted  one  another,  breathing  heavily. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  stammered.  "  I'm — h-half- 
crazed,  I  think.  ...  If  you're  what  you  look, 
God  knows  I  meant  you  no  insult.  .  .  .  But — 
but — their  damned  spies  are  everywhere.  I've 
stood  too  much — I've  been  in  hell  for  two 
weeks " 

He  wiped  his  mouth  with  a  trembling,  raw 
hand,  but  his  sunken  eyes  still  glared  and  the 
pallor  once  more  blanched  his  sunken  face. 

"  I'll  not  touch  you  again,"  he  said  hoarsely ; 
"  I'm  not  a  beast — not  that  kind.  But  I'm 
starving.  Is  there  anything — anything,  I  tell 
you?  I — I  am  not — very — strong." 

She  looked  calmly  into  the  ravaged,  but  still 
boyish  features ;  saw  him  swing,  reeling  a  lit 
tle,  on  his  heels  as  he  steadied  himself  with 
one  hand  against  the  table. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 


Red  Ferry  145 

He  sank  into  a  chair,  resting  the  hand  which 
clutched  the  revolver  on  the  table. 

Without  a  word  she  went  about  the  busi 
ness  of  the  moment,  rekindled  the  ashes,  filled 
the  fry  pan  with  mush  and  bacon.  A  little 
while  afterwards  she  set  the  smoking  food  be 
fore  him,  and  seated  herself  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table. 

The  boy  ate  wolfishly  with  one  hand;  the 
other  seemed  to  have  grown  fast  to  the  butt 
of  his  heavy  weapon.  She  could  have  bent 
and  shot  him  under  the  table  had  she  wished ; 
she  could  have  taken  him  with  her  bare 
hands. 

But  she  only  sat  there,  dark,  sorrowful  eyes 
on  him,  and  in  pity  for  his  certain  doom  her 
under  lip  trembled  at  intervals  so  she  could 
scarcely  control  it. 

"  Is  there  a  horse  to  be  had  anywhere  near 
here  ?  "  he  asked,  pausing  to  swallow  what  his 
sunken  jaws  had  been  working  on. 

"No;  the  soldiers  have  taken  everything." 

"  I  will  pay — anything  if  you'll  let  me  have 
something  to  ride." 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  went  on  eating;  a  slight  color  had  come 
back  into  his  face. 


146  Special  Messenger 

"  I'm  sorry  I  was  rough  with  you,"  he  said, 
not  looking  at  her. 

"  Why  were  you?  " 

He  raised  his  head  wearily. 

"  I've  been  hunted  so  long  that  I  guess  it's 
turned  my  brain.  Except  for  what  you've 
been  good  enough  to  give  me,  I've  had  noth 
ing  inside  me  for  days,  except  green  leaves 
and  bark  and  muddy  water.  ...  I  suppose  I 
can't  see  straight.  .  .  .  There's  a  woman  they 
call  the  Special  Messenger; — I  thought  they 
might  have  started  her  after  me.  .  .  .  That 
shot  at  the  ford  seemed  to  craze  me.  ...  So 
I  risked  the  ferry — seeing  your  light  across 
— and  not  knowing  whether  Snuyder  was 
still  here  or  whether  they  had  set  a  guard  to 
catch  me.  ...  It  was  Red  Ferry  or  starve; 
I'm  too  weak  to  swim ;  I  waited  too  long." 

And  as  the  food  and  hot  tea  warmed  him, 
his  vitality  returned  in  a  maddened  desire  for 
speech  after  the  weeks  of  terror  and  silence. 

"  I  don't  know  who  you  are,"  he  went  on, 
"  but  I  guess  you're  not  fixed  for  shooting  at 
me,  as  every  living  thing  seems  to  have  done 
for  the  last  fortnight.  Maybe  you're  in  Yan 
kee  pay,  maybe  in  Confederate;  I  can't  help 
it.  I  suppose  you'll  tell  I've  been  here  after 


Red  Ferry  147 

I'm  gone.  .  .  .  But  they'll  never  get  me 
now !  "  he  bragged,  like  a  truant  schoolboy 
recounting  his  misdemeanor  to  an  awed  com 
panion. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  she  asked  very  gently. 

He  looked  at  her  defiantly. 

"  I'm  Roy  Allen,"  he  said,  "  of  Kay's  Cav 
alry.  ...  If  you're  fixing  to  tell  the  Union 
people  you  might  as  well  tell  them  who  fooled 
'em !  " 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  " 

She  inquired  so  innocently  that  a  hint  of 
shame  for  his  suspicion  and  brutality  toward 
her  reddened  his  hollow  cheeks. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I've  done,"  he  said. 
"  I've  taken  to  the  woods,  headed  for  Dixie, 
with  a  shirtful  of  headquarter  papers.  That's 
what  I've  done.  .  .  .  And  perhaps  you  don't 
know  what  that  means  if  they  catch  me.  It 
means  hanging." 

"  Hanging !  "  she  faltered. 

"  Yes — if  they  get  me."  His  voice  quiv 
ered,  but  he  added  boastingly :  "  No  fear  of 
that !  I'm  too  many  for  old  Kay !  " 

"  But — but  why  did  you  desert?  " 

"  Why  ? "  he  repeated.  Then  his  face 
turned  red  and  he  burst  out  violently :  "  I'll 
11 


148  Special  Messenger 

tell  you  why.  I  lived  in  New  York,  but  I 
thought  the  South  was  in  the  right.  Then 
they  drafted  me;  and  I  tried  to  tell  them  it 
was  an  outrage,  but  they  gave  me  the  choice 
between  Fort  Lafayette  and  Kay's  Cavalry. 
.  .  .  And  I  took  the  Cavalry  and  waited.  .  .  . 
I  wouldn't  have  gone  as  far  as  to  fight 
against  the  flag — if  they  had  let  me  alone. 
...  I  only  had  my  private  opinion  that  the 
South  was  more  in  the  right  than  we — the 
North — was.  .  .  .  I'm  old  enough  to  have  an 
opinion  about  niggers,  and  I'm  no  coward 
either.  .  .  .  They  drove  me  to  this ;  I  didn't 
want  to  kill  people  who  were  more  in  the  right 
than  we  were.  .  .  .  But  they  made  me  enlist 
— and  I  couldn't  stand  it.  ...  And  now,  if 
I've  got  to  fight,  I'll  fight  bullies  and  brutes 
who " 

He  ended  with  a  gesture — an  angry,  foolish 
boast,  shaking  his  weapon  toward  the  north. 
Then,  hot,  panting,  sullenly  sensible  of  his 
fatigue,  he  laid  the  pistol  on  the  table  and 
glowered  at  the  floor. 

She  could  have  taken  him,  unarmed,  at  any 
moment,  now. 

"  Soldier,"  she  said  gently,  "  listen  to  me." 

He  looked  up  with  heavy-lidded  eyes. 


Red  Ferry  149 

"  I  am  trying  to  help  you  to  safety,"  she 
said. 

A  hot  flush  of  mortification  mantled  his 
face: 

"  Thank  you.  ...  I  ought  to  have  known ; 
I — I  am  ashamed  of  what  I  said — what  I 
did." 

"You  were  only  a  little  frightened;  I  am 
not  angry." 

"  You  understand,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  A— little." 

"  You  are  Southern,  then  ?  "  he  said ;  and  in 
spite  of  himself  his  heavy  lids  began  to  droop 
again. 

"  No ;  Northern,"  she  replied. 

His  eyes  flew  wide  open  at  that,  and  he 
straightened  up  in  his  chair. 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  me,  Soldier  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  ashamed  again.  "  But — 
you're  going  to  tell  on  me  after  I  am  gone." 

"No." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  demanded  suspiciously. 

She  leaned  both  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
resting  her  chin  on  both  palms,  smiled  at 
him. 

"  Because,"  she  said,  "  you  are  going  to  tell 
on  yourself,  Roy." 


150  Special  Messenger 

"  What !  "  he  blurted  out  in  angry  astonish 
ment. 

"  You  are  going  to  tell  on  yourself.  .  .  . 
You  are  going  back  to  your  regiment.  ...  It 
will  be  your  own  idea,  too ;  it  has  been  your 
own  idea  all  the  while — your  secret  desire 
every  moment  since  you  deserted — 

"  Are  you  crazy !  "  he  cried,  aghast ;  "  or  do 
you  think  I  am  ?  " 

"  — ever  since  you  deserted,"  she  went  on, 
dark  eyes  looking  deep  into  his,  "  it  has  been 
your  desire  to  go  back.  .  .  .  Fear  held  you ; 
rage  hardened  your  heart ;  dread  of  death  as 
your  punishment;  angry  brooding  on  what 
you  believed  was  a  terrible  injustice  done 
you — all  these  drove  you  to  panic.  .  .  .  Don't 
scowl  at  me :  don't  say  what  is  on  your  lips 
to  say.  You  are  only  a  tired,  frightened  boy 
— scarcely  eighteen,  are  you  ?  And  at  eighteen 
no  heart  can  really  be  a  traitor." 

"  Traitor  !  "  he  repeated,  losing  all  his  angry 
color. 

"It  is  a  bad  word,  isn't  it,  Roy?  Lying 
hidden  and  starving  in  the  forest  through  the 
black  nights  you  had  to  fight  that  word  away 
from  you — drive  it  out  of  your  half-crazed 
senses — often — didn't  you?  Don't  you  think 


Red  Ferry  151 

I  know,  my  boy,  what  a  dreadful  future  you 
faced,  lying  there  through  the  stifling  nights 
while  they  hunted  you  to  hang  you? 

"  I  know,  also,  that  what  you  did  you  did 
in  a  moment  of  insane  rage.  I  know  that  the 
moment  it  was  done  you  would,  in  your  secret 
soul,  have  given  the  world  to  have  undone  it." 

"  No  !  "  he  cried.     "  I  was  right !  " 

She  rose,  walked  to  the  door,  and  seated 
herself  on  the  sill,  looking  up  at  the  stars. 

For  an  hour  she  sat  there,  silent.  Behind 
her,  leaning  heavily  on  the  table,  he  crouched, 
hot  eyes  wide,  pulse  heavy  in  throat  and  body. 
And  at  last,  without  turning,  she  called  to 
him — three  times,  very  gently,  speaking  his 
name;  and  at  the  third  call  he  rose  and  came 
stumbling  toward  her. 

"  Sit  here." 

He  sank  down  beside  her  on  the  sill. 

"  Are  you  very  tired  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  placed  one  arm  around  him,  drawing 
his  hot  head  down  on  her  shoulder. 

"  How  foolish  you  have  been,"  she  whis 
pered.  "  But,  of  course,  your  mother  must 
not  know  it.  ...  There  is  no  reason  to  tell 
her — ever.  .  .  .  Because  you  went  quite  mad 


152  Special  Messenger 

for  a  little  while — and  nobody  is  blamed  for 
mental  sickness.  .  .  .  How  bright  the  stars 
are.  .  .  .  What  a  heavenly  coolness  after  that 
dreadful  work.  .  .  .  How  feverish  you  are! 
I  think  that  your  regiment  believes  you  roamed 
away  while  suffering  from  sunstroke.  .  .  . 
Their  Colonel  is  a  good  friend  of  mine.  Tell 
him  you're  sorry." 

His  head  lay  heavily  on  her  shoulder;  she 
laid  a  fresh  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"  If  the  South  is  right,  if  we  of  the  North 
are  right,  God  knows  better  than  you  or  I, 
Roy.  .  .  .  And  if  you  are  so  bewildered  that 
you  have  no  deep  conviction  either  way  I  think 
you  may  trust  Him  who  set  you  among  Kay's 
Cavalry.  .  .  .  God  never  betrayed  a  human 
soul  in  honest  doubt." 

"  It — it  was  the  flag ! — that  was  the  hardest 
to  get  over — "  he  began,  and  choked,  smoth 
ering  the  dry  sob  against  her  breast. 

"  I  know,  dear.  .  .  .  The  old  flag  means  so 
much — it  means  all  that  our  fathers  have  been, 
all  that  we  ought  to  be  for  the  world's  sake. 
Anger,  private  resentment,  bitterness  under 
tyranny — these  are  little  things ;  for,  after  all, 
the  flag  still  stands  for  what  we  ought  to  be — 
you  and  I  and  those  who  misuse  us,  wittingly 


Red  Ferry  153 

or  otherwise.  .  .  .  Where  are  the  papers  you 
took?" 

He  pressed  his  feverish  face  closer  to  her 
shoulder  and  fumbled  at  the  buttons  of  his 
jacket. 

"  Here  ?  "  she  asked  softly,  aiding  him  with 
deft  fingers ;  and  in  a  moment  she  had  secured 
them. 

For  a  while  she  held  him  there,  cradling 
him ;  and  his  dry,  burning  face  seemed  to 
scorch  her  shoulder. 

Dawn  was  in  the  sky  when  she  unclosed  her 
eyes — a  cool,  gray  dawn,  hinting  of  rain. 

She  looked  down  at  the  boy.  His  head  lay 
across  her  lap;  he  slept,  motionless  as  the 
dead. 

The  sun  rose,  a  pale  spot  on  the  gray  hori 
zon. 

"  Come,"  she  said  gently.  And  again, 
"  Come ;  I  want  you  to  take  me  across  the 
ferry." 

He  rose  and  stood  swaying  on  his  feet,  rub 
bing  both  eyes  with  briar-torn  fists. 

"  You  will  take  me,  won't  you,  Roy  ?  " 

"Where?" 

"  Back  to  your  regiment." 

"  Yes— I'll  take  you." 


154  Special  Messenger 

For  a  few  moments  she  was  busy  gathering 
up  her  spools  and  linen. 

"  You  carry  my  saddlebags,"  she  said, 
"  and  I'll  take  the  kitten.  Isn't  it  cunning, 
Roy?  Do  look  at  the  poor  little  thing!  We 
can't  leave  it  here." 

Following,  laden  with  her  saddlebags,  he 
stammered : 

"  Do — d-do  you  think  they'll  shoot  me?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  Be  careful  of 
the  ferry  steps ;  they  are  dreadfully  shaky." 

She  began  the  descent,  clasping  the  kitten  in 
both  arms ;  the  boy  followed.  Seated  in  the 
punt,  they  stowed  away  the  saddlebags  and 
the  kitten,  then  he  picked  up  the  pole,  looked 
at  her,  hesitated.  She  waited. 

"  I  guess  the  old  man  will  have  me  shot. 
.  .  .  But — I  am  going  back,"  he  said,  as 
though  to  himself. 

She  watched  him;  he  looked  up. 

"  You're  right,  ma'am.  I  must  have  been 
crazy.  Everybody  reads  about  traitors — 
in  school.  .  .  .  Nobody  ever  forgets  their 
names.  ...  I  don't  want  my  name  in  school 
books." 

"  Like  Benedict  Arnold's,"  she  said ;  and  he 
quivered  from  head  to  foot. 


Red  Ferry  155 

"  Oh,  cricky ! "  he  burst  out,  horrified ; 
"  how  close  I  came  to  it !  Have  you  got  those 
papers  safe  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Roy." 

"  Then  I'll  go.  I  don't  care  what  they  do 
to  me." 

As  he  rose  with  the  pole,  far  away  in  the 
woods  across  the  river  a  cavalry  band  began 
to  play.  Faint  and  clear  the  strains  of  the 
Star-Spangled  Banner  rose  from  among  the 
trees  and  floated  over  the  water ;  the  boy  stood 
spellbound,  mouth  open  ;  then,  as  the  far  music 
died  away,  he  sank  back  into  the  boat,  deathly 
pale. 

"  I — I  ought  to  be  hung !  "  he  whispered. 

The  Messenger  picked  up  the  fallen  pole, 
set  it,  and  drove  the  punt  out  into  the  river. 
Behind  her,  huddled  in  the  stern,  the  prodigal 
wept,  uncomforted,  head  buried  in  his  shak 
ing  arms ;  and  the  kitten,  being  afraid,  left  the 
shelter  of  the  thwarts  and  crept  up  on  his 
knees,  sitting  there  and  looking  out  at  the  un 
stable  world  of  water  in  round-eyed  appre 
hension. 

As  the  punt  grated  on  the  northern  shore 
the  Messenger  drove  her  pole  into  the  mud, 
upright,  and  leaned  on  it. 


156  Special  Messenger 

"  Roy,"  she  said,  looking  back  over  her 
shoulder. 

The  boy  rubbed  his  wet  eyes  with  the  sleeve 
of  his  jacket  and  got  up. 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  " 

"  Not  now." 

"  That  is  well.  .  .  .  You'll  be  punished. 
.  .  .  Not  severely.  .  .  .  For  you  came  back 
of  your  own  accord — repentant.  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
were  you  really  afraid  that  the  Special  Mes 
senger  might  catch  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was,"  he  said  simply.  "  That's 
why  I  acted  so  rough  with  you.  ...  I  didn't 
know ;  they  say  any  woman  you  see  may  be 
the  Special  Messenger.  ...  So  I  took  no 
chances.  .  .  .  Who  are  you,  anyway  ?  " 

"  Only  a  friend  of  yours,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"  Please  pick  up  my  kitten.  Thank  you.  .  .  . 
And  some  day,  when  you've  been  very,  very 
good,  I'll  ask  Colonel  Kay  to  let  you  take  me 
fishing." 

And  she  stepped  lightly  ashore ;  the  boy  fol 
lowed,  holding  the  kitten  under  one  arm  and 
drying  his  grimy  eyes  on  his  sleeve. 


VI 


AN    AIR-LINE 

S  for  me,"  continued  Colonel 
Gay  bitterly,  "  I'm  driven  al 
most  frantic  by  this  conspir 
acy.  Whenever  a  regiment  ar 
rives  or  leaves,  whenever  a 
train  stirs — yes,  by  Heaven,  every  time  a  loco 
motive  toots  or  a  mule  brays  or  a  chicken  has 
the  pip — somebody  informs  the  Johnnies,  and 
every  detail  is  known  to  them  within  a  few 
hours !  " 

The    Special   Messenger  seated  herself   on 
the  edge  of  the  camp  table.     "  I  suppose  they 


158  Special  Messenger 

are  very  disagreeable  to  you  about  it  at  head 
quarters." 

"Yes,  they  are — but  how  can  I  help  it? 
Somehow  or  other,  whatever  is  clone  or  said 
or  even  thought  in  this  devilish  supply  camp 
is  immediately  reported  to  Jeb  Stuart ;  every 
movement  of  trains  and  troops  leaks  out ;  he'll 
know  to-night  what  I  ate  for  breakfast  this 
morning — I'll  bet  on  that.  And,  Messenger, 
let  me  tell  you  something.  Joking  aside,  this 
thing  is  worrying  me  sick.  Can  you  help 
me?" 

"  I'll  try,"  she  said.  "  Headquarters  sent 
me.  They're  very  anxious  up  there  about  the 
railroad." 

"I  can't  help  it!"  cried  the  distracted  officer. 
"  On  Thursday  I  had  to  concentrate  the  line- 
patrol  to  drive  Maxon's  bushwhackers  out  of 
Laurel  Siding;  and  look  what  Stuart  did  to 
me.  No  sooner  were  we  off  than  he  struck 
the  unguarded  section  and  tore  up  two  miles 
of  track !  What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

The  Special  Messenger  shook  her  pretty 
head  in  sympathy. 

"  There's  a  leak  somewhere,"  insisted  the 
angry  officer ;  "  it  smells  to  Heaven,  but  I  can't 
locate  it.  Somewhere  there's  a  direct,  in- 


An  Air-Line  159 

telligent  and  sinister  underground  communi 
cation  between  Osage  Court  House  and  Jeb 
Stuart  at  Sandy  River — or  wherever  he  is. 
And  what  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  locate  that 
leak  and  plug  it." 

"  Of  course,"  murmured  the  Special  Mes 
senger,  gently  tapping  her  riding  skirt  with 
her  whip. 

"  Because,"  continued  the  Colonel,  "  head 
quarters  is  stripping  this  depot  of  troops. 
The  Bucktails  go  to-day ;  Casson's  New  York 
brigade  and  Barrel's  cavalry  left  yesterday. 
What  remains  is  a  mighty  small  garrison  for 
a  big  supply  depot — eleven  hundred  effectives, 
and  they  may  take  some  of  them  at  any  mo 
ment.  You  see  the  danger  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  I've  protested ;  I've  pointed  out  the  risk 
we  run ;  I  sent  my  third  messenger  to  head 
quarters  this  afternoon.  Of  course,  they  don't 
intend  to  leave  this  depot  unguarded — prob 
ably  they'll  send  the  Vermont  troops  from  the 
North  this  week — but  between  the  departure 
of  Casson's  column  and  the  theoretical  arrival 
of  reinforcements  from  Preston,  we'd  be  in  a 
bad  way  if  Stuart  should  raid  us  in  force. 
And  with  this  irritating  and  constant  leaking 


160  Special  Messenger 

out  of  information  I'm  horribly  afraid  he'll 
strike  us  as  soon  as  the  Bucktails  entrain." 

"  Why  don't  you  hold  the  Pennsylvania  in 
fantry  until  we  can  find  out  where  the  trouble 
lies  ?  "  asked  the  girl,  raising  her  dark  eyes  to 
the  nervous  young  Colonel. 

"I  haven't  the  authority;  I've  asked  for  it 
twice.  Orders  stand ;  the  Bucktails  are  going, 
and  I'm  worried  to  death."  He  shoved  his 
empty  pipe  into  his  mouth  and  bit  viciously  at 
the  stem. 

'''  Then,"  she  said,  "  if  I'm  to  do  anything 
I'd  better  hurry,  hadn't  I  ?  " 

The  young  officer's  face  grew  grimmer. 
"  Certainly ;  but  I've  been  a  month  at  it  and 
I'm  no  wiser.  Of  course  I  know  you  are  very 
celebrated,  ma'am;  but,  really,  do  you  think 
it  likely  that  you  can  pick  out  this  hidden  mis 
chief-maker  before  he  sends  word  to  Stuart 
to-night  of  our  deplorable  condition  ?  " 

"  How  long  have  I  ?  " 

"  About  a  day." 

"  When  do  the  Bucktails  go  ?  " 

"  At  nine  to-night." 

"Who  knows  it?" 

"  Who  doesn't  ?  I  can't  move  a  regiment 
and  its  baggage  in  a  day,  can  I  ?  I've  given 


An  Air-Line  161 

them  twenty-four  hours  to  break  camp  and 
entrain." 

"  Does  the  train  master  know  which  troops 
are  going  ?  " 

"  He  has  orders  to  hold  three  trains,  steam 
up,  night  and  day." 

"  I  see,"  she  murmured,  strapping  her  soft 
riding  hat  more  securely  to  her  hair  with  the 
elastic  band.  Her  eyes  had  been  wandering 
restlessly  around  the  tent  as  though  searching 
for  something  which  she  could  not  find. 

"Have  you  a  good  map  of  the  district?" 
she  asked. 

He  went  to  his  military  chest,  opened  it,  and 
produced  a  map.  For  a  while,  both  hands  on 
the  table,  she  leaned  above  the  map  studying 
the  environment. 

"  And  Stuart  ?  You  say  he's  roaming 
around  somewhere  in  touch  with  Sandy  Riv 
er  ?  "  she  asked,  pointing  with  a  pencil  to  that 
metropolis  on  the  map. 

"  The  Lord  knows  where  he  is !  "  muttered 
the  Colonel.  "  He  may  be  a  hundred  miles 
south  now,  and  in  my  back  yard  to-morrow 
by  breakfast  time.  But  when  he's  watching 
us  he's  usually  near  Sandy  River." 

"  I  see.     And  these  " — drawing  her  pencil 


1 62  Special  Messenger 

in  a  wavering  line — "  are  your  outposts  ?  I 
mean  those  pickets  nearest  Sandy  River." 

"  They  are.     Those  are  rifle  pits." 

"  A  grand  guard  patrols  this  line  ? "  she 
asked,  rising  to  her  feet. 

"  Yes ;  a  company  of  cavalry  and  a  field 
gun." 

"  Do  you  issue  passes?" 

"  Not  to  the  inhabitants." 

"  Have  any  people  —  civilians  —  asked  for 
passes  ?  " 

"  I  had  two  applications ;  one  from  a  Miss 
Carryl,  who  lives  about  a  mile  beyond  here  on 
the  Sandy  River  Road ;  another  from  an  old 
farmer,  John  Deal,  who  has  a  fruit  and  truck 
farm  half  a  mile  outside  our  lines.  He  wanted 
to  come  in  with  his  produce  and  I  let  him  for 
a  while.  But  that  leakage  worried  me,  so  I 
stopped  him." 

"  And  this  Miss  Carryl — did  she  want  to 
go  out  ?  " 

"  She  owns  the  Deal  farm.  Yes,  she 
wanted  to  drive  over  every  day ;  and  I  let  her 
until,  as  I  say,  I  felt  obliged  to  stop  the  whole 
business — not  permit  anybody  to  go  out  or 
come  in  except  our  own  troops." 

"  And  still  the  leakage  continues?  " 


An  Air-Line  163 

"  It  certainly  does,"  he  said  dryly. 

The  Special  Messenger  seated  herself  on 
one  end  of  the  military  chest  and  gazed  ab 
sently  at  space.  Her  booted  foot  swung  gently 
at  intervals. 

"  So  this  Miss  Carryl  owns  John  Deal's 
farm,"  she  mused  aloud. 

"  They  run  it  on  shares,  I  believe." 

"  Oh !  Was  she  angry  when  you  shut  out 
her  tenant,  John  Deal,  and  shut  her  inside  the 
lines?" 

"  No ;  she  seemed  a  little  surprised — said  it 
was  inconvenient — wanted  permission  to  write 
him." 

"You  gave  it?" 

"  Yes.  I  intimated  it  would  save  time  if  she 
left  her  letters  to  him  unsealed.  She  seemed 
quite  willing." 

"  You  read  them  all,  of  course,  before  de 
livering  them  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  There  was  nothing  in  them 
except  instructions  about  plowing,  fruit  pick 
ing,  and  packing,  and  various  bucolic  mat 
ters." 

"  Oh !      Nothing  to   be   read   between   the 
lines?     No   cipher?     No   invisible  ink?     No 
tricks  of  any  sort  ?  " 
12 


164  Special  Messenger 

"  Not  one.  I  had  a  detective  here.  He  said 
there  was  absolutely  no  harm  in  the  letters,  in 
Miss  Carryl,  or  in  John  Deal.  I  have  all  the 
letters  if  you  care  to  look  at  them ;  I  always 
keep  the  originals  and  allow  only  copies  to  be 
sent  to  old  man  Deal." 

"  Let  me  see  those  letters,"  suggested  the 
Messenger. 

The  Colonel,  who  had  been  sitting  on  the 
camp  table,  got  off  wearily,  rummaged  in  a 
dispatch  box,  and  produced  three  letters,  all 
unsealed. 

Two  were  directed  in  a  delicately  flowing, 
feminine  hand  to  John  Deal,  Waycross  Or 
chard.  The  Messenger  unfolded  the  first  and 
read: 

Dear  Mr.  Deal: 

Colonel  Gay  has  thought  it  necessary,  for  military 
reasons,  to  revoke  my  pass;  and  I  shall,  therefore,  be 
obliged  hereafter  to  communicate  with  you  by  letter 
only. 

I  wish,  if  there  are  negroes  enough  remaining  in  the 
quarters,  that  you  would  start  immediately  a  seedling 
orchard  of  white  Rare-ripe  peaches  from  my  orchard 
here.  I  have  permission  to  send  the  pits  to  you  by  the 
military  post-rider  who  passes  my  house.  I  will  send 
you  twenty  every  day  as  my  peaches  ripen.  Please 


An  Air -Line  165 

prepare  for  planting.      I    hope  your   rheumatism  is 
better. 

Yours  very  truly, 

EVELYN  CARRYL. 

The  Messenger's  dark  eyes  lifted  dreamily 
to  the  Colonel: 

"  You  gave  her  permission  to  send  the  pits 
by  your  post-rider  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  smiling ;  "  but  I  always 
look  over  them  myself.  You  know  the  wed 
ding  gown  of  the  fairy  princess  was  hidden  in 
a  grape  seed." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  about  the  pits?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  Oh !  When  does  the  next  batch  of  twenty 
go?" 

"  In  about  an  hour.  Miss  Carryl  puts  them 
in  a  bag  and  gives  them  to  my  messenger  who 
brings  them  to  me.  Then  I  inspect  every  pit, 
tie  up  the  bag,  seal  it,  and  give  it  to  my  mes 
senger.  When  he  takes  the  mail  to  the  out 
posts  he  rides  on  for  half  a  mile  and  leaves 
the  sealed  bag  at  Deal's  farm." 

"  Does  your  messenger  know  what  is  in  the 
bag?" 

"  No,  he  doesn't." 


1 66  Special  Messenger 

She  nodded,  amused,  saying  carelessly: 

"  Of  course  you  trust  your  post-rider?  " 

"  Absolutely." 

The  Special  Messenger  swung  her  foot  ab 
sently  to  and  fro,  and  presently  opened  an 
other  letter: 

Dear  Mr.  Deal: 

I  am  sending  you  twenty  more  peach  pits  for  plant 
ing.  What  you  write  me  about  the  bees  is  satisfactory. 
I  have  received  the  bees  you  sent.  There  is  no  reason 
why  you  should  not  make  the  exchange  with  Mr.  En- 
derly,  as  it  will  benefit  our  hives  as  well  as  Mr.  Enderly's 
to  cross  his  Golden  Indias  with  my  Blacks. 

The  Messenger  studied  the  letter  thought 
fully  ;  askance,  the  officer  watched  the  delicate 
play  of  expression  on  her  absorbed  young 
face,  perhaps  a  trifle  incredulous  that  so  dis- 
tractingly  pretty  a  woman  could  be  quite  as 
intelligent  as  people  believed. 

She  looked  up  at  him  quietly. 

"  So  you  gave  Deal  permission  to  send  some 
bees  to  Miss  Carryl  and  write  her  a  letter?  " 

"  Once.  I  had  the  letter  brought  to  me  and 
I  sent  her  a  copy.  Here  it  is — the  original." 

He  produced  Deal's  letter  from  the  dispatch 
pouch,  and  the  Messenger  read : 


An  Air-Line  167 

Miss  Evelyn  Carryl, 
Osage  Court  House. 

Respected  Miss: 

I  send  you  the  bees.  I  seen  Mr.  Enderly  at  Sandy 
River  he  says  he  is  very  wishful  for  to  swap  bees  to  cross 
the  breed  I  says  it  shorely  can  be  done  if  you  say  so  I  got 
the  pits  and  am  studyin'  how  to  plant.  The  fruit  is  a 
rottin'  can't  the  Yankees  at  Osage  buy  some  truck  no 
how  off'n  me?  So  no  more  with  respect  from 

JOHN  DEAL, 
Supt. 

"  That  seems  rather  harmless,  doesn't  it  ?  " 
asked  the  Colonel  wearily. 

"  I  don't — know.  I  think  I'll  take  a  look  at 
John  Deal's  beehives." 

"  His  beehives  \  " 

"  Yes." 

"What  for?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  don't  know — exactly.  I  was  always 
fond  of  bees.  They're  so  useful  " — she  looked 
up  artlessly  —  "  so  clever  —  quite  wonderful, 
Colonel.  Have  you  ever  read  anything  about 
bees  —  how  they  live  and  conduct  them 
selves  ?  " 

The     Colonel     eyed     her     narrowly ;     she 


1 68  Special  Messenger 

laughed,  sprang  up  from  the  military  chest, 
and  handed  back  his  letters. 

"  You  have  already  formed  your  theory  ?  " 
he  inquired  with  a  faintly  patronizing  air,  un 
der  which  keen  disappointment  betrayed  itself 
where  the  grim,  drooping  mouth  tightened. 

"  Yes,  I  have.  There's  a  link  missing,  but 
—I  may  find  that  before  night.  You  can  give 
me — how  long  ?  " 

"  The  Bucktails  leave  at  nine.  See  here, 
Messenger!  With  all  the  civility  and  respect 
due  you,  I 

"  You  are  bitterly  disappointed  in  me,"  she 
finished  coolly.  "  I  don't  blame  you,  Colonel 
Gay." 

He  was  abashed  at  that,  but  unconvinced. 

"  Why  do  you  suspect  this  Miss  Carryl  and 
this  man,  Deal,  when  I've  showed  you  how 
impossible  it  is  that  they  could  send  out  in 
formation  ?  " 

"  Somehow,"  she  said  quietly,  "  they  do  send 
it — if  they  are  the  only  two  people  who  have 
had  passes,  and  who  now  are  permitted  to 
correspond." 

"  But  you  saw  the  letters " 

"  So  did  you,  Colonel." 

"  I     did !  "    he    said    emphatically ;    "  and 


An  Air -Line  169 

there's  nothing  dangerous  in  them.  As  for 
the  peach  pits " 

"  Oh,  I'll  take  your  word  for  them,  too,"  she 
said,  laughing.  "  When  is  your  post-rider 
due?" 

"  In  a  few  minutes,  now." 

She  began  to  pace  backward  and  forward, 
the  smile  still  lightly  etched  on  her  lips.  The 
officer  watched  her;  puckers  of  disappointed 
anxiety  creased  his  forehead ;  he  bit  at  his 
pipestem,  and  thought  of  the  Bucktails.  Cer 
tainly  Stuart  would  hear  of  their  going ;  surely 
before  the  northern  reinforcements  arrived 
the  gray  riders  would  come  thundering  into 
Osage  Court  House.  Fire,  pillage,  countless 
stores  wasted,  trains  destroyed,  miles  of  rail 
roads  rendered  useless.  What,  in  Heaven's 
name,  could  his  superiors  be  thinking  of,  to 
run  such  risk  with  one  of  the  bases  of  supplies  ? 
Somewhere — somewhere,  not  far  from  corps 
headquarters,  sat  incompetency  enthroned — 
gross  negligence  —  under  a  pair  of  starred 
shoulder  straps.  And,  musing  bitterly,  he 
thought  he  knew  to  whom  those  shoulder 
straps  belonged. 

"  The  damn  fool !  "  he  muttered,  biting  at 
his  pipe. 


170  Special  Messenger 

"  Colonel,"  said  the  Messenger  cheerily,  "  I 
am  going  to  take  the  mail  to  the  outposts  to 
day." 

"  As  you  like,"  he  said,  without  interest. 

"  I  want,  also,  a  pass  for  Miss  Carryl." 

"  To  pass  our  lines  ?  " 

'  To  pass  out.    She  will  not  care  to  return." 

"  Certainly,"  he  said  with  amiable  curiosity. 

He  scratched  off  the  order  and  she  took  it. 

"  Ask  for  anything  you  desire,"  he  said, 
smiling. 

"  Then  may  I  have  this  tent  to  myself  for  a 
little  while?  And  would  you  be  kind  enough 
to  send  for  my  saddlebags  and  my  own 
horse." 

The  Colonel  went  to  the  tent  flap,  spoke  to 
the  trooper  on  guard.  When  he  came  back  he 
said  that  it  was  beginning  to  rain. 

"  Hard  ?  "  she  asked,  troubled. 

"No;  just  a  fine,  warm  drizzle.  It  won't 
last." 

"  All  the  better !  "  she  cried,  brightening ; 
and  it  seemed  to  the  young  officer  as  though 
the  sun  had  gleamed  for  an  instant  on  the  tent 
wall.  But  it  was  only  the  radiant  charm  of 
her,  transfiguring,  with  its  youthful  brilliancy, 
the  dull  light  in  the  tent;  and,  presently,  the 


An  Air -Line  171 

Colonel  went  away,  leaving  her  very  busy 
with  her  saddlebags. 

There  was  a  cavalry  trooper's  uniform  in 
one  bag;  she  undressed  hurriedly  and  put  it 
on.  Over  this  she  threw  a  long,  blue  army 
cloak,  turned  up  the  collar,  and,  twisting  her 
hair  tightly  around  her  head,  pulled  over  it 
the  gray,  slouch  campaign  hat,  with  its  crossed 
sabres  of  gilt  and  its  yellow  braid. 

It  was  a  boyish-looking  rider  who  mounted 
at  the  Colonel's  tent  and  went  cantering  away 
through  the  warm,  misty  rain,  mail  pouch  and 
sabre  flopping. 

There  was  no  need  for  her  to  inquire  the 
way.  She  knew  Waycross,  the  Carryl  home, 
and  John  Deal's  farm  as  well  as  she  knew  her 
own  home  in  Sandy  River. 

The  drizzle  had  laid  the  dust  and  washed 
clean  the  roadside  grass  and  bushes ;  birds 
called  expectantly  from  fence  and  thorny 
thicket,  as  the  sun  whitened  through  the  mist 
above;  butterflies,  clinging  to  dewy  sprays, 
opened  their  brilliant  wings  in  anticipation; 
swallows  and  martins  were  already  soaring 
upward  again ;  a  clean,  sweet,  fragrant  vapor 
rose  from  earth  and  shrub. 

Ahead  of  her,  back  from  the  road,  at  the 


172  Special  Messenger 

end  of  its  private  avenue  of  splendid  oaks,  an 
old  house  glimmered  through  the  trees;  and 
the  Special  Messenger's  eyes  were  fixed  on  it 
steadily  as  she  rode. 

Pillar,  portico,  and  porch  glistened  white 
amid  the  leaves;  Cherokee  roses  covered  the 
gallery  lattice ;  an  old  negro  was  pretending  to 
mow  the  unkempt  lawn  with  a  sickle,  but 
whenever  the  wet  grass  stuck  to  the  blade  he 
sat  down  to  examine  the  landscape  and  shake 
his  aged  head  at  the  futility  of  all  things  mun 
dane.  The  clatter  of  the  Special  Messenger's 
horse  aroused  him;  at  the  same  instant  a 
graceful  woman,  dressed  in  black,  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  porch  and  stood  there  as  though 
waiting. 

The  big  gateway  was  open ;  under  arched 
branches  the  Messenger  galloped  down  the 
long  drive  and  drew  bridle,  touching  the  brim 
of  her  slouch  hat.  And  the  Southern  woman 
looked  into  the  Messenger's  eyes  without  rec 
ognition. 

Miss  Carryl  was  fair,  yellow-haired  and 
blue-eyed — blonder  for  the  dull  contrast  of  the 
mourning  she  wore — and  her  voice  was  as 
colorless  as  her  skin  when  she  bade  the  trooper 
good  afternoon. 


An  Air-Line  173 

All  she  could  see  of  this  cloaked  cavalry 
man  was  two  dark,  youthful  eyes  above  the 
upturned  collar  of  the  cloak,  shadowed,  too, 
by  the  wet  hat  brim,  drooping  under  gilded 
crossed  sabres. 

"You  are  not  the  usual  mail-carrier?"  she 
asked  languidly. 

"  No,  ma'am  " — in  a  nasal  voice. 

"  Colonel  Gay  sent  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

Miss  Carryl  turned,  lifted  a  small  salt  sack, 
and  offered  it  to  the  Messenger,  who  leaned 
wide  from  her  saddle  and  took  it  in  one  hand. 

"  You  are  to  take  this  bag  to  the  Deal  farm. 
Colonel  Gay  has  told  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Thank  you.  And  there  is  no  letter  to-day. 
Will  you  have  a  few  peaches  to  eat  on  the 
way?  I  always  give  the  mail-carrier  some  of 
my  peaches  to  eat." 

Miss  Carryl  lifted  a  big,  blue  china  bowl 
full  of  superb,  white,  rare-ripe  peaches,  and, 
coming  to  the  veranda's  edge,  motioned  the 
Messenger  to  open  the  saddlebags.  Into  it 
she  poured  a  number  of  peaches. 

"  They  are  perfectly  ripe,"  she  said ;  "  I 
hope  you  will  like  them." 


174  Special  Messenger 

"  Thank'y,  ma'am." 

"  And,  Soldier,"  she  turned  to  add  with 
careless  grace,  "  if  you  would  be  kind  enough 
to  drop  the  pits  back  into  the  saddlebag  and 
give  them  to  Mr.  Deal  he  would  be  glad  of 
them  for  planting." 

"  Yes'm ;  I  will " 

"  How  many  peaches  did  I  give  you  ?  Have 
you  enough  ?  " 

"  Plenty,  ma'am ;  you  gave  me  seven, 
ma'am." 

"  Seven  ?  Take  two  more — I  insist — that 
makes  nine,  I  think.  Good  day ;  and  thank 
you." 

But  the  Messenger  did  not  hear;  there  was 
something  far  more  interesting  to  occupy  her 
mind — a  row  of  straw-thatched  beehives  under 
the  fruit  trees  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  house. 

From  moment  to  moment,  homing  or  out 
going  bees  sped  like  bullets  across  her  line  of 
vision ;  the  hives  were  busy  now  that  a  gleam 
of  pale  sunshine  lay  across  the  grass.  One 
bee,  leaving  the  hive,  came  humming  around 
the  Cherokee  roses.  The  Messenger  saw  the 
little  insect  alight  and  begin  to  scramble  about, 
plundering  the  pollen-powdered  blossom.  The 
bee  was  a  yellow  one. 


An  Air-Line  175 

Suddenly  the  Messenger  gathered  bridle 
and  touched  her  hat;  and  away  she  spurred, 
putting  her  horse  to  a  dead  run. 

Passing  the  inner  lines,  she  halted  to  give 
and  receive  the  password,  then  tossed  a  bunch 
of  letters  to  the  corporal,  and  spurred  forward. 
Halted  by  the  outer  pickets,  she  exchanged 
amenities  again,  rid  herself  of  the  remainder 
of  the  mail,  and  rode  forward,  loosening  the 
revolver  in  her  holster.  Then  she  ate  her  first 
peach. 

It  was  delicious — a  delicate,  dripping,  snow- 
white  pulp,  stained  with  pink  where  the  pit 
rested.  There  was  nothing  suspicious  about 
that  pit,  or  any  of  the  others  when  she  broke 
the  fragrant  fruit  in  halves  and  carefully  in 
vestigated.  Then  she  tore  off  the  seal  and 
opened  the  bag  and  examined  each  of  the 
twenty  dry  pits  within.  Not  one  had  been 
tampered  with. 

Her  horse  had  been  walking  along  the 
moist,  fragrant  road ;  a  few  moments  later 
she  passed  the  last  cavalry  picket,  and  at  the 
same  moment  she  caught  sight  of  John  Deal's 
farm. 

The  house  was  neat  and  white  and  small ; 
orchards  stretched  in  every  direction ;  a  few 


176  Special  Messenger 

beehives  stood  under  the  fruit  trees  near  a 
well. 

A  big,  good-humored  looking  man  came  out 
into  the  path  as  the  Messenger  drew  bridle, 
greeted  the  horse  with  a  caress  and  its  rider 
with  a  pleasant  salute. 

"  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  he  said, 
taking  the  sack  of  pits.  "  I  reckon  we're 
bound  to  have  more  fine  weather.  What's  this 
— some  peach  pits  from  Miss  Carryl  ?  " 

"  Nine,"  nodded  the  Messenger. 

"  Nine !  I'll  have  nine  fine  young  trees  this 
time  three  years,  I  reckon.  Thank  you,  suh. 
How's  things  over  to  the  Co't  House?" 

'''  Troops  arriving  all  the  while,"  said  the 
Messenger  carelessly. 

"  Comin'  in  ?  " 

"  Lots." 

"  Sho !    I  heard  they  was  sendin'  'em  East." 

"  Oh,  some.  We've  got  to  have  elbow- 
room.  Can't  pack  two  army  corps  into  Osage 
Court  House." 

;'  Two  a'my  co'ps,  suh  ?  " 

"  More  or  less." 

John  Deal  balanced  the  sack  in  the  palm  of 
one  work-worn  hand  and  looked  hard  at  the 
Messenger.  He  could  see  only  her  eyes. 


"'Turn  around,'  said  the  Special  Messenger." 


An  Air-Line  177 

"  Reckon  you  ain't  the  same  trooper  as 
come  yesterday." 

"  No." 

"  What  might  be  yoh  regiment  ?  " 

The  Messenger  was  looking  hard  at  the  bee 
hives.  The  door  of  one  of  the  hives,  a  new 
one,  was  shut. 

"  What  regiment  did  you  say,  suh  ?  "  re 
peated  Deal,  showing  his  teeth  in  a  friendly 
grin ;  and  suddenly  froze  rigid  as  he  found 
himself  inspecting  the  round,  smoky  muzzle 
of  a  six-shooter. 

"  Turn  around,"  said  the  Special  Messen 
ger.  Her  voice  was  even  and  passionless. 

John  Deal  turned. 

"  Cross  your  hands  behind  your  back. 
Quickly,  please!  Now  back  up  to  this  horse. 
Closer !  " 

There  was  a  glimmer,  a  click ;  and  the  man 
stood  handcuffed. 

"  Sit  down  on  the  grass  with  your  back 
against  that  tree.  Make  yourself  comfort 
able." 

Deal  squatted  awkwardly,  settled,  and 
turned  a  pallid  face  to  the  Messenger. 

"  What'n  hell's  this  mean  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Don't   move   and    don't   shout,"    said   the 


178  Special  Messenger 

Messenger.  "  If  you  do  I'll  have  to  gag  you. 
I'm  only  going  over  there  to  take  a  look  at 
your  bees." 

The  pallor  on  the  man's  face  was  dreadful, 
but  he  continued  to  stare  at  the  Messenger 
coolly  enough. 

"  It's  a  damned  outrage !  "  he  began  thickly. 
"  I  had  a  pass  from  your  Colonel — 

"  If  you  don't  keep  quiet  I'll  have  to  tie  up 
your  face,"  observed  the  Messenger,  dismount 
ing  and  flinging  aside  her  cloak. 

Then,  as  she  walked  toward  the  little  row 
of  beehives,  carrying  only  her  riding  whip,  the 
farmer's  eyes  grew  round  and  a  dull  flush  em 
purpled  his  face  and  neck. 

"By  God!"  he  gasped;  "it's  herl"  and 
said  not  another  word. 

She  advanced  cautiously  toward  the  hives; 
very  carefully,  with  the  butt  of  her  whip,  she 
closed  the  sliding  door  over  every  exit,  then 
seated  herself  in  the  grass  within  arm's  length 
of  the  hives  and,  crossing  her  spurred  boots, 
leaned  forward,  expectant,  motionless. 

A  bee  arrived,  plunder-laden,  dropped  on 
the  sill  and  began  to  walk  toward  the  closed 
entrance  of  his  hive.  Finding  it  blocked,  the 
insect  buzzed  angrily.  Another  bee  whizzed 


An  Air-Line  179 

by  her  and  lit  on  the  sill  of  another  hive;  an 
other  came,  another,  and  another. 

Very  gingerly,  as  each  insect  alighted,  she 
raised  the  sliding  door  and  let  it  enter.  Deal 
watched  her,  fascinated. 

An  hour  passed ;  she  had  admitted  hundreds 
of  bees,  always  closing  the  door  behind  each 
new  arrival.  Then  something  darted  through 
the  range  of  her  vision  and  alighted,  buzzing 
awkwardly  on  the  sill  of  a  hive — an  ordinary, 
yellow-brown  honey  bee,  yet  differing  from 
the  others  in  that  its  thighs  seemed  to  be  snow- 
white. 

Quick  as  a  flash  the  Messenger  leaned  for 
ward  and  caught  the  insect  in  her  gloved  fin 
gers,  holding  it  by  the  wings  flat  over  the 
back. 

Its  abdomen  dilated  and  twisted,  and  the 
tiny  sting  was  thrust  out,  vainly  searching  the 
enemy ;  but  the  Messenger,  drawing  a  pin 
from  her  jacket,  deftly  released  the  two  white 
encumbrances  from  the  insect's  thighs — two 
thin  cylinders  of  finest  tissue  paper,  and  flung 
the  angry  insect  high  into  the  air.  It  circled, 
returned  to  the  hive,  and  she  let  it  in. 

There  was  a  groan  from  the  manacled  man 
under  the  trees ;  she  gave  him  a  rapid  glance, 
13 


180  Special  Messenger 

shook  her  head  in  warning,  and,  leaning  for 
ward,  deftly  lifted  a  second  white-thighed  bee 
from  the  hive  over  which  it  was  scrambling  in 
a  bewildered  sort  of  way. 

A  third,  fourth,  and  fifth  bee  arrived  in 
quick  succession ;  she  robbed  them  all  of  their 
tissue-paper  cylinders.  Then  for  a  while  no 
more  arrived,  and  she  wondered  whether  her 
guess  had  been  correct,  that  the  nine  peaches 
and  wet  pits  meant  to  John  Deal  that  nine  bees 
were  to  be  expected  —  eager  home-comers, 
which  he  had  sent  to  his  mistress  and  which, 
as  she  required  their  services,  she  released, 
certain  that  they  would  find  their  old  hives  on 
John  Deal's  farm  and  carry  to  him  the  mes 
sages  she  sent. 

And  they  came  at  last — the  sixth,  seventh 
— then  after  a  long  interval  the  eighth — and, 
finally,  the  ninth  bee  whizzed  up  to  the  hive 
and  fell,  scrambling,  its  movements  embar 
rassed  by  the  tiny,  tissue  cylinders. 

The  Messenger  waited  another  hour ;  there' 
were  no  more  messengers  among  the  bees  that 
arrived. 

Then  she  opened  every  hive  door,  rose, 
walked  over  to  the  closed  hive  that  stood  apart 
and  opened  the  door  of  that. 


An  Air -Line  181 

A  black  honeybee  crawled  out,  rose  into  the 
air,  and  started  due  south;  another  followed, 
then  three,  then  a  dozen ;  and  then  the  hive 
vomited  a  swarm  of  black  bees  which  sped 
southward. 

Sandy  River  lay  due  south ;  also,  the  home- 
hive  from  which  they  had  been  taken  and  con 
fined  as  prisoners ;  also,  a  certain  famous  offi 
cer  lingered  at  Sandy  River — one,  General  J. 
E.  B.  Stuart,  very  much  interested  in  the  bee 
hives  belonging  to  a  friend  of  his,  a  Mr.  En- 
derly. 

When  she  had  relieved  each  messenger-bee 
of  its  tissue-paper  dispatch,  she  had  taken  the 
precaution  to  number  each  tiny  cylinder,  in 
order  of  its  arrival,  from  one  to  nine.  Now 
she  counted  them,  looked  over  each  message, 
laid  them  carefully  away  between  the  leaves 
of  a  pocket  notebook,  slipped  it  into  the  breast 
of  her  jacket,  and,  rising,  walked  over  to  John 
Deal. 

"  Here  is  the  key  to  those  handcuffs,"  she 
said,  hanging  it  around  his  neck  by  the  bit  of 
cord  on  which  it  was  dangling.  "  Somebody 
at  Sandy  River  will  unlock  them  for  you.  But 
it  would  be  better,  Mr.  Deal,  if  you  remained 
outside  our  lines  until  this  war  is  ended.  I 


1 82  Special  Messenger 


don't  blame  you — I'm  sorry  for  you — and  for 
your  mistress." 

She  set  toe  to  stirrup,  mounted  easily,  fas 
tened  her  cloak  around  her. 

"  I'm  really  sorry,"  she  said.  "  I  hope  no 
body  will  injure  your  pretty  farm.  Good-by." 

Miss  Carryl  was  standing  at  the  end  of  the 
beautiful,  oak-shaded  avenue  when  the  Mes 
senger,  arriving  at  full  speed,  drew  bridle  and 
whirled  her  horse. 

Looking  straight  into  the  pretty  Southern 
woman's  eyes,  she  said  gravely : 

"  Miss  Carryl,  your  bees  have  double  stings. 
I  am  very  sorry  for  you — very,  very  sorry.  I 
hope  your  property  will  be  respected  while  you 
are  at  Sandy  River." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Miss  Carryl. 
Over  her  pale  features  a  painful  tremor 
played. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  And  I  am  afraid 
you  had  better  go  at  once.  John  Deal  is  al 
ready  on  his  way." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Miss  Carryl 
found  her  voice  at  length. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  without  a  tremor. 
"  Will  I  have  any  trouble  in  passing  the  Yan 
kee  lines?  " 


An  Air-Line  183 


"  Here  is  your  passport.    I  had  prepared  it." 

As  the  Messenger  bent  over  from  the  saddle 
to  deliver  the  pass,  somehow  her  hat,  with  its 
crossed  gilt  sabres,  fell  off.  She  caught  it  in 
one  hand;  a  bright  blush  mantled  throat  and 
face. 

The  Southern  woman  looked  up  at  the  girl 
in  the  saddle,  so  dramatically  revealed  for 
what  she  was  under  the  superb  accusation  of 
her  hair. 

"  You?  " 

"  Yes— God  help  us  both !  " 

The  silence  was  terrible. 

"  It  scarcely  surprises  me,"  murmured  Miss 
Carryl  with  a  steady  smile.  "  I  saw  only  your 
eyes  before,  but  they  seemed  too  beautiful  for 
a  boy's." 

Then  she  bent  her  delicately-molded  head 
and  studied  the  passport.  The  Messenger, 
still  blushing,  drew  her  hat  firmly  over  her 
forehead  and  fastened  a  loosened  braid.  Pres 
ently  she  took  up  her  bridle. 

"  I  will  ask  Colonel  Gay's  protection  for 
Waycross  House,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  am  so  dreadfully  sorry  that  this  has  hap 
pened." 

"  You  need  not  be ;  I  have  only  tried  to  do 


184  Special  Messenger 

for  my  people  what  you  are  doing  for  yours — 
but  I  should  be  glad  of  a  guard  for  Waycross. 
His  grave  is  in  the  orchard  there."  And  with 
a  quiet  inclination  of  the  head  she  turned 
away  into  the  oak-bordered  avenue,  walking 
slowly  toward  the  house  which,  in  a  few  mo 
ments,  she  must  leave  forever. 

In  the  late  sunshine  her  bees  flashed  by, 
seeking  the  fragrant  home-hives ;  long,  ruddy 
bars  of  sunlight  lay  across  grass  and  tree 
trunk ;  on  the  lawn  the  old  servant  still 
chopped  at  the  unkempt  grass,  and  the  music 
of  his  sickle  sounded  pleasantly  under  the  trees. 

On  these  things  the  fair-haired  Southern 
woman  looked,  and  if  her  eye  dimmed  and  her 
pale  lip  quivered  there  was  nobody  to  see. 
And  after  a  little  while  she  went  into  the 
house,  slowly,  head  held  high,  black  skirt 
lifted,  just  clearing  the  threshold  of  her  an 
cestors. 

Then  the  Special  Messenger,  head  hanging, 
wheeled  her  horse  and  rode  slowly  back  to 
Osage  Court  House. 

She  passed  the  Colonel,  who  was  dismount 
ing  just  outside  his  tent,  and  saluted  him  with 
out  enthusiasm: 

"  The  leak  is  stopped,  sir.     Miss  Carryl  is 


An  Air-Line  185 


going  to  Sandy  River;  John  Deal  is  on  his 
way.  They  won't  come  back — and,  Colonel, 
won't  you  give  special  orders  that  her  house 
is  not  to  be  disturbed?  She  is  an  old  school 
friend." 

The  Colonel  stared  at  her  incredulously. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  still  have  your  doubts  about 
that  leak,  sir." 

"  Yes,  I  have." 

She  dismounted  wearily;  an  orderly  took 
her  horse,  and  without  a  word  she  and  the 
Colonel  entered  the  tent. 

"  They  used  bees  for  messengers,"  she  said ; 
"  that  was  the  leak." 

"Bees?" 

"  Honey  bees,  Colonel." 

For  a  whole  minute  he  was  silent,  then  burst 
out: 

"  Good  God  !  Bees!  And  if  such  a — an  ex 
traordinary  performance  were  possible  how 
did  you  guess  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  she  said  patiently,  "  I  used  them  that 
way  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  Bees,  like  pig 
eons,  go  back  to  their  homes.  Look,  sir! 
Here,  in  order,  are  the  dispatches,  each  traced 
in  cipher  on  a  tiny  roll  of  tissue.  They  were 
tied  to  the  bees'  thighs." 


1 86  Special  Messenger 

And  she  spread  them  out  in  order  under  his 
amazed  eyes ;  and  this  is  what  he  saw  when 
she  pieced  them  together  for  him : 

EIO2W2  x  I8W3  A  NI7W3  x 

OII6I5W3  x  ENl7l7l4I8I5O2 
N  x  I7IE  x  I4C>2l2x 
NxHI5  xIo2Ex 
N  x  O  x  E  x  WNW3x 
W  xl  8E3XHN  D  x 
L  x  I3  A  O2XW3IsW3NW2x 


I4l2  x  I8W3I7I4LI  x  NW3x 
I5O2HL  x  O2l4EI3W3x 
HNI7I7  ©  W2 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  he  said,  "  but  how 
about  this  hieroglyphic?  Do  you  think  any 
body  on  earth  is  capable  of  reading  such  a 
thing?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Can  you?  " 

"  All  such  ciphers  are  solved  by  the  same 
method.  .  .  .  Yes,  Colonel,  I  can  read  it  very 
easily." 

"  Well,  would  you  mind  doing  so?  " 

"  Not  in  the  slightest,  sir.  The  key  is  ex 
tremely  simple.  I  will  show  you."  And  she 
picked  up  pencil  and  paper  and  wrote: 


An  Air-Line  187 

One 

Two 

Three 

Four 

Five 

Six 

Seven 

Eight 

Nine 

Ten 

Eleven 

Twelve 

Thirteen 

Fourteen 

Fifteen 

Sixteen 

Seventeen 

Eighteen 

Nineteen 

Twenty 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  taking  the  second  letter 
in  each  word,  we  can  parallel  that  column 
thus: 

N  equals  the  letter  A 
W  equals  the  letter  B 
H  equals  the  letter  C 
O  equals  the  letter  D 
I  equals  the  letter  E 

''  Then,  in  the  word  six  we  have  the  letter  / 
again  as  the  second  letter,  so  we  call  it  12. 
And,  continuing,  we  have: 


1 88  Special  Messenger 

1 2  equals  the  letter  F 
E  equals  the  letter  G 

13  equals  the  letter  H 

1 4  equals  the  letter  I 
E2  equals  the  letter  J 

L  equals  the  letter  K 
W2  equals  the  letter  L 
H2  equals  the  letter  M 
O2  equals  the  letter  N 

15  equals  the  letter  O 

16  equals  the  letter  P 
£3  equals  the  letter  Q 

17  equals  the  letter  R 

18  equals  the  letter  S 
W3  equals  the  letter  T 

"  Now,  using  these  letters  for  the  symbols 
in  the  cipher : 

EIO2W2  x  I8W3  A  Nl7\V3  x 

OII6I5W3  x  ENIylrUlSlsOa 
N  x  I7IE  x  I4O2I2X 
NxHI5xIO2Ex 
N  x  O  x  E  x  WNW3x 
W  xl  8E3XHN  J  x 
L  x  13  A  O2XW.3l5W3NW2x 


I4l2  x  I8W3l7l4LI  x  NW3x 
I5O2HL  x  O2l4El3W3x 
HNI7I7  0  W2 

"  We  translate  it  freely  thus,  and  I'll  under 
line  only  the  words  in  the  cipher : 


An  Air-Line  189 


Gen'l  Stuart: 

(Sandy  River?) 

(The  present)    Depot  Garrison    (of  Osage  Court 
House  is) 

One  Reg(iment)  (of)  Inf(antry) 

One  Co(mpany  of)  Eng(ineers) 

One  Four  G(un)  Bat(tery) 

Two  Sq(uadrons)  (of)  Cav(alry) 

Eleven  Hun(dred  men)  Total 
If  (you)  strike  (strike)  at  once  (and  at)  night! 

(Signed)  Carryl. 


"  Do  you  see,  Colonel,  how  very  simple  it 
is,  after  all?" 

The  Colonel,  red  and  astounded,  hung  over 
the  paper,  laboriously  verifying  the  cipher  and 
checking  off  each  symbol  with  its  alphabetical 
equivalent. 

"  What's  that  mark?  "  he  demanded;  "  this 
symbol " 

"  It  stands  for  the  letter  U,  sir." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

The  Messenger,  seated  sideways  on  the 
camp  table,  one  small  foot  swinging,  looked 
down  and  bit  her  lip. 

"Must  I  tell  you?" 

"  As  you  please.    And  I'll  say  now  that  your 


i  go  Special  Messenger 

solving  this  intricate  and  devilish  cipher  is,  to 
me,  a  more  utterly  amazing-  performance  than 
the  rebel  use  of  bees  as  messengers." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"  It  need  not  amaze  you.  ...  I  was  born 
in  Sandy  River.  .  .  .  And  in  happier  times — 
when  my  parents  were  living — I  spent  the 
school  vacations  there.  .  .  .  We  had  always 
kept  bees.  .  .  .  There  was — in  those  days — 
a  boy.  We  were  very  young  and — roman 
tic.  We  exchanged  vows  —  and  bees  —  and 
messages  in  cipher.  ...  I  knew  this  cipher  as 
soon  as  I  saw  it.  I  invented  it — long  ago — 
for  him  and  me." 

"  W-well,"  stammered  the  bewildered  Colo 
nel,  "  I  don't  see  how " 

"  I  do,  sir.  Our  girl  and  boy  romance  was 
a  summer  dream.  One  day  he  dreamed  truer. 
So  did  the  beautiful  Miss  Carryl.  .  .  .  And 
the  pretty  game  I  invented  for  him  he  taught 
in  turn  to  his  fiancee.  .  .  .  Well,  he  died  in 
The  Valley.  .  .  .  And  I  have  just  given  his 
fiancee  her  passport.  It  would  be  very  kind 
of  you  to  station  a  guard  at  the  Carryl 
place  for  its  protection.  Would  you  mind 
giving  the  order,  sir?  ...  He  is  buried 
there." 


An  Air-Line 


191 


The    Colonel,    hands    clasped    behind    him, 

walked  to  the  tent  door. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I'll  give  the  order." 

A   few   moments    later   the   drums   of   the 

Bucktails  began  beating  the  assembly. 


VII 


THE    PASS 

ER  map,  which  at  headquarters 
was  supposed  to  be  reliable, 
had  grossly  misled  her ;  the 
road  bore  east  instead  of  north, 
dwindling,  as  she  advanced,  to 
a  rocky  path  among  the  foothills.  She  had 
taken  the  wrong  turn  at  the  forks ;  there  was 
nothing  to  direct  her  any  farther — no  land 
marks  except  the  general  trend  of  the  water 
course,  and  the  dull  cinders  of  sunset  fading 
to  ashes  in  the  west. 

It  was  impossible  now  to  turn  back;  Car- 
192 


The  Pass  193 

rick's  flying  column  must  be  very  close  on  her 
heels  by  this  time — somewhere  yonder  in  the 
dusk,  paralleling  her  own  course,  with  only  a 
dark  curtain  of  forest  intervening. 

So  all  that  evening,  and  far  into  the  starlit 
night,  she  struggled  doggedly  forward,  lead 
ing  her  lamed  horse  over  the  mountain,  drag 
ging  him  through  laurel  thickets,  tangles  of 
azalea  and  rhododendron,  thrashing  across  the 
swift  mountain  streams  that  tumbled  out  of 
starry,  pine-clad  heights,  foaming  athwart 
her  trail  with  the  rushing  sound  of  forest 
winds. 

For  a  while  the  clear  radiance  of  the  stars 
lighted  the  looming  mountains;  but  when 
wastes  of  naked  rock  gave  place  to  ragged 
woods,  lakes  and  pits  of  darkness  spread  sud 
denly  before  her;  every  gully,  every  ravine 
brimmed  level  with  treacherous  shadows, 
masking  the  sheer  fall  of  rock  plunging  down 
ward  into  fathomless  depths. 

Again  and  again,  as  she  skirted  the  unseen 
edges  of  destruction,  chill  winds  from  unsus 
pected  deeps  halted  her;  she  dared  not  light 
the  lantern,  dared  not  halt,  dared  not  even 
hesitate.  And  so,  righting  down  terror,  she 
toiled  on,  dragging  her  disabled  horse,  until, 


1 94  Special  Messenger 

just  before  dawn,  the  exhausted  creature  re 
fused  to  stir  another  foot. 

Desperate,  breathless,  trembling  on  the 
verge  of  exhaustion,  with  the  last  remnants 
of  nervous  strength  she  stripped  saddle  and 
bridle  from  the  animal ;  then  her  nerves  gave 
way  and  she  buried  her  face  against  her 
horse's  reeking,  heaving  shoulders. 

"  I've  got  to  go  on,  dear,"  she  whispered ; 
"  I'll  try  to  come  back  to  you.  .  .  .  See  what 
a  pretty  stream  this  is,"  she  added,  half  hys 
terically,  "  and  such  lots  of  fresh,  sweet  grass. 
.  .  .  Oh,  my  little  horse — my  little  horse !  I'm 
so  tired — so  tired !  " 

The  horse  turned  his  gentle  head,  mumbling 
her  shoulder  with  soft,  dusty  lips ;  she  stifled 
a  sob,  lifted  saddle,  saddlebags,  and  bridle  and 
carried  them  up  the  rocky  bank  of  the  stream 
to  a  little  hollow.  Here  she  dropped  them, 
unstrapped  her  revolver  and  placed  it  with 
them,  then  drew  from  the  saddlebags  a  home 
spun  gown,  sunbonnet,  and  a  pair  of  coarse 
shoes,  and  laid  them  out  on  the  moss. 

Fatigue  rendered  her  limbs  unsteady;  her 
fingers  twitched  as  she  fumbled  with  button 
and  buckle,  but  at  last  spurred  boots,  stock 
ings,  jacket,  and  dusty  riding  skirt  fell  from 


The  Pass  195 

her ;  undergarments  dropped  in  a  circle  around 
her  bare  feet ;  she  stepped  out  of  them,  paused 
to  twist  up  her  dark  hair  tightly,  then,  cross 
ing  the  moss  to  the  stream's  edge,  picked  her 
way  out  among  the  boulders  to  the  brimming 
rim  of  a  pool. 

In  the  exquisite  shock  of  the  water  the 
blood  whipped  her  skin;  fatigue  vanished 
through  the  crystal  magic;  shoulder-deep  she 
waded,  crimson-cheeked,  then  let  herself  drift, 
afloat,  stretching  out  in  ecstasy  until  every 
aching  muscle  thrilled  with  the  delicious  reac 
tion. 

Overhead,  tree  swallows  darted  through  a 
sky  of  pink  and  saffron,  pulsating  with  the 
promise  of  the  sun ;  the  tinted  peak  of  a  moun 
tain,  jaggedly  mirrored  in  the  unquiet  pool, 
suddenly  glowed  crimson,  and  the  reflections 
ran  crisscross  through  the  rocking  water,  lac 
ing  it  with  fiery  needles. 

She  looked  like  some  delicate  dawn-sprite 
as  she  waded  ashore — a  slender,  unreal  shape 
in  the  rosy  glow,  while  behind  her,  from  the 
dim  ravine,  ghosts  of  the  mountain  mist 
floated,  rising  like  a  company  of  slim,  white 
angels  drifting  to  the  sky. 

All  around  her  now  the  sweet,  bewildered 
14 


196  Special  Messenger 

murmur  of  purple  martins  grew  into  sustained 
melody;  thrush  and  mocking  bird,  thrasher 
and  cardinal,  sang  from  every  leafy  slope ;  and 
through  the  rushing  music  of  bird  and  pour 
ing  waterfall  the  fairy  drumming  of  the  cock- 
o'-the-pines  rang  out  in  endless,  elfin  reveille. 

While  she  was  managing  to  dry  herself  and 
dress,  her  horse  limped  off  into  the  grassy 
swale  below  to  drink  in  the  stream  and  feed 
among  the  tender  grasses. 

Before  she  drew  on  the  homespun  gown  she 
tucked  her  linen  map  into  an  inner  skirt 
pocket,  flat  against  her  right  thigh ;  then, 
fastening  on  the  shabby  skirt,  she  rolled  up  her 
riding  habit^  laid  it  with  lantern,  revolver, 
saddle,  bridle,  boots,  and  bags,  in  the  hollow 
and  covered  all  over  with  heaps  of  fragrant 
dead  leaves  and  branches.  It  was  the  best  she 
could  do,  and  the  time  was  short. 

Her  horse  raised  his  wise,  gentle  head,  and 
looked  across  the  stream  at  her  as  she  hastened 
past,  then  limped  stiffly  toward  her. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  stand  it  if  you  hobble  after 
me  !  "  she  wailed  under  her  breath.  "  Dearest 
— dearest — I  will  surely  come  back  to  you. 
Good-by — good-by  !  " 

On  the  crest  of  the  ridge  she  cast  one  swift, 


The  Pass  197 

tearful  glance  behind.  The  horse,  evidently 
feeling  better,  was  rolling  in  the  grass,  all 
four  hoofs  waving  at  the  sky.  And  she 
laughed  through  the  tears,  and  drew  from  her 
pockets  a  morsel  of  dry  bread  which  she  had 
saved  from  the  saddlebags.  This  she  nibbled 
as  she  walked,  taking  her  bearings  from  the 
sun  and  the  sweep  of  the  southern  mountain 
slopes ;  and  listening,  always  listening,  for  the 
jingle  and  clank  of  the  Confederate  fly  ing  bat 
tery  that  was  surely  following  along  some 
where  on  that  parallel  road  which  she  had 
missed,  hidden  from  her  view  only  by  a  cur 
tain  of  forest,  the  width  of  which  she  had  no 
time  to  investigate.  Nor  did  she  know  for 
certain  that  she  had  outstripped  the  Confed 
erate  column  in  the  race  for  the  pass — a  des 
perate  race,  although  the  men  of  that  flying 
column,  which  was  hastening  to  turn  the  pass 
into  a  pitfall  for  the  North,  had  not  the  faint 
est  suspicion  that  the  famous  Special  Messen 
ger  was  racing  with  them  to  forestall  them,  or 
even  that  their  secret  was  no  longer  a  secret. 

In  hot  haste  from  the  south  hills  she  had 
come  to  wrarn  Benton's  division  of  the  ambus 
cade  preparing  for  it,  riding  by  highway  and 
byway,  her  heart  in  her  mouth,  taking  every 


Special  Messenger 


perilous  chance.  And  now,  at  the  last  mo 
ment,  here  in  the  West  Virginian  Mountains, 
almost  within  sight  of  the  pass  itself,  disaster 
threatened — the  human  machine  was  giving 
out. 

There  were  just  two  chances  that  Benton 
might  yet  be  saved — that  his  leisurely  advance 
had,  by  some  miracle,  already  occupied  the 
pass,  or,  if  not,  that  she  could  get  through  and 
meet  Benton  in  time  to  stop  him. 

She  had  been  told  that  there  was  a  cabin  at 
the  pass,  and  that  the  mountaineer  who  lived 
there  was  a  Union  man. 

Thinking  of  these  things  as  she  crossed  the 
ridge,  she  came  suddenly  into  full  view  of  the 
pass.  It  lay  there  just  below  her ;  there  could 
be  no  mistake.  A  stony  road  wound  along  the 
stream,  flanked  by  forest-clad  heights;  she 
recognized  the  timber  bridge  over  the  ravine, 
which  had  been  described  to  her,  the  corduroy 
way  across  the  swamp,  the  single,  squat  cabin 
crowning  a  half-cleared  hillock.  She  realized 
at  a  glance  the  awful  trap  that  this  silent, 
deadly  place  could  be  turned  into;  for  one 
rushing  moment  her  widening  eyes  could 
almost  see  blue  masses  of  men  in  disorder, 
crushed  into  that  horrible  defile;  her  ears 


The  Pass  199 

seemed  to  ring  with  their  death  cries,  the  rip 
pling  roar  of  rifle  fire.  Then,  with  a  sharp, 
indrawn  breath,  she  hastened  forward,  taking 
the  descent  at  a  run.  And  at  the  same  moment 
three  gray- jacketed  cavalrymen  cantered  into 
the  road  below,  crossed  the  timber  bridge  at 
a  gallop,  and  disappeared  in  the  pass,  carbines 
poised. 

She  had  arrived  a  minute  too  late ;  the  pass 
was  closed ! 

Toiling  breathlessly  up  the  bushy  hillock, 
crouching,  bending,  creeping  across  the  stony 
open  where  scant  grass  grew  in  a  meager  gar 
den,  she  reached  the  cabin.  It  was  empty;  a 
fire  smoldered  under  a  kettle  in  which  potatoes 
were  boiling ;  ash  cakes  crisped  on  the  hearth, 
bacon  sizzled  in  a  frying  pan  set  close  to  the 
embers. 

But  where  was  the  tenant  ? 

A  shout  from  the  road  below  brought  her 
to  the  door ;  then  she  dropped  flat  on  her  stom 
ach,  crawled  forward,  and  looked  over  the 
slope. 

A  red-haired  old  man,  in  his  shirt  sleeves, 
carrying  a  fishing  pole,  was  running  down  the 
road,  chased  by  two  gray-jacketed  troopers. 
He  ran  well,  throwing  away  his  pole  and  the 


200  Special  Messenger 

string  of  slimy  fish  he  had  been  carrying ;  but, 
half  way  across  the  stream,  they  rode  him 
down  and  caught  him,  driving  their  horses 
straight  into  the  shallow  flood ;  and  a  few  mo 
ments  later  a  fresh  squad  of  cavalry  trotted 
up,  forced  the  prisoner  to  mount  a  led  horse, 
and,  surrounding  him,  galloped  rapidly  away 
southward. 

The  Special  Messenger  lay  perfectly  still 
and  flat,  watching,  listening,  waiting,  coolly 
alert  for  a  shadow  of  a  chance  to  slip  out  and 
through  the  pass ;  but  there  was  to  be  no  such 
chance  now,  for  a  dozen  troopers  came  into 
view,  running  their  lean  horses  at  top  speed, 
and  wheeled  straight  into  the  pass.  A  full 
squadron  followed,  their  solid  galloping  wak 
ing  clattering  echoes  among  the  rocks.  Then 
her  delicate  ears  caught  a  distant,  ominous 
sound — nearer,  louder,  ringing,  thudding,  jar 
ring,  pounding — the  racket  of  field  artillery 
arriving  at  full  speed. 

And  into  sight  dashed  a  flying  battery,  guns 
and  limbers  bouncing  and  thumping,  whips 
cracking,  chains  crashing,  the  six-horse  teams 
on  a  dead  run. 

An  officer  drew  bridle  and  threw  his  horse 
on  its  haunches ;  the  first  team  rushed  on  to 


The  Pass  201 

the  pass  with  a  clash  and  clank  of  wheels  and 
chains,  swung  wide  in  a  demi-tour,  dropped  a 
dully  glistening  gun,  and  then  came  trampling 
back.  The  second,  third,  and  fourth  teams, 
guns  and  caissons,  swerved  to  the  right  of  the 
hillock  and  came  plunging  up  the  bushy  slope, 
horses  straining  and  scrambling,  trampling 
through  the  wretched  garden  to  the  level  grass 
above. 

One  by  one  the  gun  teams  swung  in  a  half 
circle,  each  dropped  its  mud-spattered  gun, 
the  cannoneers  sprang  to  unhook  the  trails, 
the  frantic,  half-maddened  horses  were  lashed 
to  the  rear. 

The  Special  Messenger  rose  quietly  to  her 
feet,  and  at  the  same  instant  a  passing  can 
noneer  turned  and  saw  her  in  the  doorway. 

"  Hey !  "  he  exclaimed ;  "  what  you  doin' 
thar?" 

A  very  young  major,  spurring  up  the  slope, 
caught  sight  of  her,  too. 

"  This  won't  do ! "  he  began  excitedly, 
pushing  his  sweating  horse  up  to  the  door. 
"  I'm  sorry,  but  it  won't  do —  He  hesitated, 
perplexed,  eyeing  this  slim,  dark-eyed  girl, 
who  stood  as  though  dazed  there  in  her  ragged 
homespun  and  naked  feet, 


202  Special  Messenger 

Colonel  Carrick,  passing  at  a  canter,  turned 
in  his  saddle,  calling  out : 

"  Major  Kent !  Keep  that  woman  here ! 
It's  too  late  to  send  her  back." 

The  boy-major  saluted,  then  turned  to  the 
girl  again : 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  asked,  vexed. 

She  seemed  unable  to  reply. 

A  cannoneer  said  respectfully : 

"  Reckon  the  li'l  gal's  jes'  natch'ally  skeered 
o'  we-uns,  Major,  seein'  how  the  caval'y 
ketched  her  paw  down  thar  in  the  crick." 

The  Major  said  briefly: 

"  Your  father  is  a  Union  man,  but  nobody 
is  going  to  hurt  him.  I'd  send  you  to  the  rear, 
too,  but  there's  no  time  now.  Please  go  in 
and  shut  that  door.  I'll  see  that  nobody  dis 
turbs  you." 

As  she -was  closing  the  door  the  young  Ma 
jor  called  after  her : 

"Where's  the  well?" 

As  she  did  not  know  she  only  stared  at  him 
as  though  terrified. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  more  gently.  "  Don't 
be  frightened.  I'll  come  back  and  talk  to  you 
in  a  little  while." 

As  she  shut  the  door  she  saw  the  cannon  at 


The  Pass  203 

the  pass  limber  up,  wheel,  and  go  bumping  up 
the  hill  to  rejoin  its  bespattered  fellows  on  the 
knoll. 

An  artilleryman  came  along  and  dropped  a 
bundle  of  picks  and  shovels  which  he  was  car 
rying  to  the  gunners,  who  had  begun  the 
emplacements;  the  boyish  Major  dismounted, 
subduing  his  excitement  with  a  dignified 
frown ;  and  for  a  while  he  was  very  fussy  and 
very  busy,  aiding  the  battery  captain  in  placing 
the  guns  and  verifying  the  depression. 

The  position  of  the  masked  battery  was 
simply  devilish ;  every  gun,  hidden  completely 
in  the  oak-scrub,  was  now  trained  on  the  pass. 

Opposite,  across  the  stream,  long  files  of 
gray  infantry  were  moving  to  cover  among 
the  trees ;  behind,  a  battalion  arrived  to  sup 
port  the  guns ;  below,  the  cavalry  had  begun 
to  leave  the  pass ;  troopers,  dismounted,  were 
carefully  removing  from  the  road  all  traces  of 
their  arrival. 

Leaning  there  by  the  window,  the  Special 
Messenger  counted  the  returning  fours  as 
troop  after  troop  retired  southward  and  dis 
appeared  around  the  bend  of  the  road. 

For  a  while  the  picks  and  shovels  of  the 
gunners  sounded  noisily;  concealed  riflemen, 


204  Special  Messenger 

across  the  creek,  were  also  busy  intrenching. 
But  by  noon  all  sound  had  ceased  in  the  sunny 
ravine ;  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  from  be 
low;  not  a  human  voice  echoed;  not  a  pick- 
stroke  ;  only  the  sweet,  rushing  sound  of  the 
stream  filled  the  silence;  only  the  shadows  of 
the  branches  moved. 

Warned  again  by  the  sentinels  to  close  the 
battered  window  and  keep  the  door  shut,  she 
still  watched  the  gunners,  through  the  dirty 
window  panes,  where  they  now  lay  under  the 
bushes  beside  their  guns.  There  was  no  con 
versation  among  them;  some  of  the  artillery 
men  seemed  to  be  asleep ;  some  sprawled  belly- 
deep  in  the  ferns,  chewing  twigs  or  idly  scrap 
ing  holes  in  the  soil ;  a  few  lay  about,  eating 
the  remnants  of  the  morning's  scanty  rations, 
chewing  strips  of  bacon  rind,  and  licking  the 
last  crumbs  from  the  palms  of  their  grimy 
hands. 

Along  the  bush-hidden  parapet  of  earth, 
heaps  of  amunition  lay — cannister  and  com 
mon  shell.  She  recognized  these,  and,  with  a 
shudder,  a  long  row  of  smaller  projectiles  on 
which  soldiers  were  screwing  copper  caps — 
French  hand  grenades,  brought  in  by  blockade 
runners,  and  fashioned  to  explode  on  impact — 


The  Pass  205 

so  close  was  to  be  the  coming  slaughter  of  her 
own  people  in  the  road  below. 

Toward  one  o'clock  the  gunners  were 
served  noon  rations.  She  watched  them  eat 
ing  for  a  while,  then,  nerveless,  turned  back 
into  the  single  room  of  the  cabin  and  opened 
the  rear  door — so  gently  and  noiselessly  that 
the  boyish  staff-major  who  was  seated  on  the 
sill  did  not  glance  around  until  she  spoke,  ask 
ing  his  permission  to  remain  there. 

"  You  mustn't  open  that  door,"  he  said,  look 
ing  up,  surprised  by  the  sweetness  of  the  voice 
which  he  heard  now  for  the  first  time. 

"  How  can  anybody  see  me  from  the  pass  ?  " 
she  asked  innocently.  "  That  is  what  you  are 
afraid  of,  isn't,  it?  " 

He  shot  a  perplexed  and  slightly  suspicious 
glance  at  her,  then  the  frowning  importance 
faded  from  his  beardless  face;  he  bit  a  piece 
out  of  the  soggy  corncake  he  was  holding  and 
glanced  up  at  her  again,  amiably  conscious  of 
her  attractions ;  besides,  her  voice  and  manner 
had  been  a  revelation.  Evidently  her  father 
had  had  her  educated  at  some  valley  school 
remote  from  these  raw  solitudes. 

So  he  smiled  at  her,  quite  willing  to  be 
argued  with  and  entertained;  and  at  his  sug- 


206  Special  Messenger 

gestion  she  shyly  seated  herself  on  the  sill  out 
side  in  the  sunlight. 

"  Have  you  lived  here  long?  "  he  asked  en 
couragingly. 

"  Not  very,"  she  said,  eyes  downcast,  her 
clasped  hands  lying  loosely  over  one  knee. 
The  soft,  creamy-tinted  fingers  occupied  his 
attention  for  a  moment ;  the  hand  resembled 
the  hand  of  "  quality  " ;  so  did  the  ankle  and 
delicate  arch  of  her  naked  foot,  half  impris 
oned  in  the  coarse  shoe  under  her  skirt's 
edge. 

He  had  often  heard  that  some  of  these 
mountaineers  had  pretty  children;  here,  evi 
dently,  was  a  most  fascinating  example. 

"Is  your  mother  living?"  he  asked  pleas 
antly. 

"  No,  sir." 

He  thought  to  himself  that  she  must  resem 
ble  her  dead  mother,  because  the  man  whom 
the  cavalry  had  caught  in  the  creek  was  a 
coarse-boned,  red-headed  ruffian,  quite  impos 
sible  to  reconcile  as  the  father  of  this  dark- 
haired,  dark-eyed,  young  forest  creature,  with 
her  purely-molded  limbs  and  figure  and  sensi 
tive  fashion  of  speaking.  He  turned  to  her 
curiously : 


The  Pass  207 

"  So  you  have  not  always  lived  here  on  the 
mountain." 

"  No,  not  always." 

"  I  suppose  you  spent  a  whole  year  away 
from  home  at  boarding-school,"  he  suggested 
with  patronizing  politeness. 

"  Yes,  six  years  at  Edgewood,"  she  said  in 
a  low  voice. 

"  What  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  repeating  the  name 
of  the  most  fashionable'  Southern  institute  for 
young  ladies.  "  Why,  I  had  a  sister  there — 
Margaret  Kent.  Were  you  there?  And  did 
you  ever — er — see  my  sister  ?  " 

"  I  knew  her,"  said  the  Special  Messenger 
absently. 

He  was  very  silent  for  a  while,  thinking 
to  himself. 

"  It  must  have  been  her  mother ;  that  measly 
old  man  we  caught  in  the  creek  is  '  poor 
white  '  all  through."  And,  munching  thought 
fully  again  on  his  soggy  corncake,  he  pon 
dered  over  the  strange  fate  of  this  fascinat 
ing  young  girl,  fashioned  to  slay  the  hearts 
of  Southern  chivalry — so  young,  so  sweet,  so 
soft  of  voice  and  manner,  condemned  to  live 
life  through  alone  in  this  shaggy  solitude — • 
fated,  doubtless,  to  mate  with  some  loose, 


208  Special  Messenger 

lank,  shambling,  hawk-eyed  rustic  of  the  peaks 
— doomed  to  bear  sickly  children,  and  to  fade 
and  dry  and  wither  in  the  full  springtide  of 
her  youth  and  loveliness. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  he  said  fretfully,  uncon 
scious  that  he  spoke  aloud,  unaware,  too,  that 
she  had  risen  and  was  moving  idly,  with  bent 
head,  among  the  weeds  of  the  truck  garden 
— edging  nearer,  nearer,  to  a  dark,  round  ob 
ject  about  the  size  of  a  small  apple,  which  had 
rolled  into  a  furrow  where  the  ground  was 
all  cut  up  by  the  wheel  tracks  of  artillery  and 
hoofs  of  heavy  horses. 

There  was  scarcely  a  chance  that  she  could 
pick  it  up  unobserved ;  her  ragged  skirts  cov 
ered  it ;  she  bent  forward  as  though  to  tie 
her  shoe,  but  a  sentinel  was  watching  her, 
so  she  straightened  up  carelessly  and  stood, 
hands  on  her  hips,  dragging  one  foot  idly  to 
and  fro,  until  she  had  covered  the  small, 
round  object  with  sand  and  gravel. 

That  object  was  a  loaded  French  hand 
grenade,  fitted  with  percussion  primer;  and  it 
lay  last  at  the  end  of  a  long  row  of  similar 
grenades  along  the  shaded  side  of  the  house. 

The  sentry  in  the  bushes  had  been  watch 
ing  her ;  and  now  he  came  out  along  the  edge 


The  Pass  209 

of  the  laurel  tangle,  apparently  to  warn  her 
away,  but  seeing  a  staff  officer  so  near  her  he 
halted,  satisfied  that  authority  had  been  re 
sponsible  for  her  movements.  Besides,  he 
had  not  noticed  that  a  grenade  was  missing; 
neither  had  the  major,  who  now  rose  and 
sauntered  toward  her,  balancing  his  field 
glasses  in  one  hand. 

"  There's  ammunition  under  these  bushes," 
he  said  pleasantly ;  "  don't  go  any  nearer, 
please.  Those  grenades  might  explode  if  any 
one  stumbled  over  them.  They're  bad  things 
to  handle." 

"  Will  there  be  a  battle  here  ?  "  she  asked, 
recoiling  from  the  deadly  little  bombs. 

The  Major  said,  stroking  the  down  on  his 
short  upper  lip: 

"  There  will  probably  be  a  skirmish.  I  do 
not  dare  let  you  leave  this  spot  till  the  first 
shot  is  fired.  But  as  soon  as  you  hear  it  you 
had  better  run  as  fast  as  you  can  " — he  pointed 
with  his  field  glasses — "  to  that  little  ridge  over 
there,  and  lie  down  behind  the  rocks  on  the 
other  side.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes— I  think  so." 

"  And  you'll  lie  there  very  still  until  it  is — 
over?" 


210  Special  Messenger 

"  I  understand.  May  I  go  immediately  and 
hide  there  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  he  said  gently. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  your  father  is  a  Union  man.  .  .  . 
And  you  are  Union,  too,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  smiling ;  "  are  you  afraid 
of  me?" 

A  slight  flush  stained  his  smooth,  sunburnt 
skin ;  then  he  laughed. 

"  A  little  afraid,"  he  admitted ;  "  I  find  you 
dangerous,  but  not  in  the  way  you  mean.  I — 
I  do  not  mean  to  offend  you " 

But  she  smiled  audaciously  at  him,  look 
ing  prettier  than  ever ;  and  his  heart  gave  a 
surprised  little  jump  at  her  unsuspected  capa 
bilities. 

"  Why  are  you  afraid  of  me  ?  "  she  asked, 
looking  at  him  with  her  engaging  little  smile. 
In  her  eyes  a  bewitching  brightness  sparkled, 
partly  veiled  by  the  long  lashes ;  and  she 
laughed  again,  poised  there  in  the  sunshine, 
hands  on  her  hips,  delicately  provoking  his 
reply. 

And,  crossing  the  chasm  which  her  coquetry 
had  already  bridged,  he  paid  her  the  quick, 
reckless,  boyish  compliment  she  invited — a  lit- 


The  Pass  211 

tie  flowery,  perhaps,  possibly  a  trifle  stilted, 
but  very  Southern;  and  she  shrugged  like  a 
spoiled  court  beauty,  nose  uptilted,  and  swept 
him  with  a  glance  from  half-closed  lids,  almost 
insolent. 

The  sentry  in  the  holly  and  laurel  thicket 
stared  hard  at  them  both.  And  he  saw  his 
major  break  off  a  snowy  Cherokee  rose  and, 
bending  at  his  slim,  sashed  waist,  present  the 
blossom  with  the  courtly  air  inbred  through 
many  generations ;  and  he  saw  a  ragged  moun 
taineer  girl  accept  it  with  all  the  dainty  and 
fastidious  mockery  of  a  coquette  of  the  golden 
age,  and  fasten  it  where  her  faded  bodice 
edged  the  creamy  skin  of  her  breast. 

What  the  young  major  said  to  her  after 
that,  bending  nearer  and  nearer,  the  sentry 
could  not  hear,  for  the  major's  voice  was  very 
low,  and  the  slow,  smiling  reply  was  lower 
still. 

But  the  major  straightened  as  though  he 
had  been  shot  through  and  through,  and 
bowed  and  walked  away  among  the  weeds 
toward  a  group  of  officers  under  the  trees, 
who  were  steadily  watching  the  pass  through 
their  leveled  field  glasses. 

Once  the  major  turned  around  to  look  back; 
15 


2i2  Special  Messenger 

once  she  turned  on  the  threshold.  Her  cheeks 
were  pinker;  her  eyes  sparkled. 

The  emotions  of  the  Special  Messenger  were 
very  genuine  and  rather  easily  excited. 

But  when  she  had  closed  the  door,  and 
leaned  wearily  against  it,  the  color  soon  faded 
from  her  face  and  the  sparkle  died  out  in  her 
dark  eyes.  Pale,  alert,  intelligent,  she  stood 
there  minute  after  minute,  searching  the  sin 
gle  room  with  anxious,  purposeless  eyes ;  then, 
driven  into  restless  motion  by  the  torturing 
tension  of  anxiety,  she  paced  the  loose  boards 
like  a  tigress,  up  and  down,  head  lowered, 
hands  clasped  against  her  mouth,  worrying 
the  fingers  with  the  edge  of  her  teeth. 

Outside,  through  the  dirty  window  glass, 
she  could  see  sentries  in  the  bushes,  all  look 
ing  steadily  in  the  same  direction;  groups  of 
officers  under  the  trees  still  focused  their 
glasses  on  the  pass.  By  and  by  she  saw  some 
riflemen  in  butternut  jeans  climb  into  trees, 
rifles  slung  across  their  backs,  and  disappear 
far  up  in  the  foliage,  still  climbing. 

Toward  five  o'clock,  as  she  was  eating  the 
bacon  and  hoe  cakes  which  she  had  found  in 
the  hut,  two  infantry  officers  opened  the  door, 
stared  at  her,  then,  without  ceremony,  drew  a 


The  Pass  213 

rough  ladder  from  the  corner,  set  it  outside, 
and  the  older  officer  climbed  to  the  roof. 

She  heard  him  call  down  to  the  lieutenant 
below : 

"  No  use ;  I  can't  see  any  better  up  here. 
.  .  .  They  ought  to  set  a  signal  man  on  that 
rock,  yonder ! " 

Other  officers  came  over ;  one  or  two  spoke 
respectfully  to  her,  but  she  did  not  answer. 
Finally  they  all  cleared  out ;  and  she  dragged 
a  bench  to  the  back  door,  which  swung  open 
a  little  way,  and,  alert  against  surprise,  very 
cautiously  drew  from  the  inner  pocket  her 
linen  contour  map  and  studied  it,  glancing 
every  second  or  two  out  through  the  crack  in 
the  door. 

Nobody  disturbed  her ;  with  hesitating  fore 
finger  she  traced  out  what  pretended  to  be  a 
path  dominating  the  northern  entrance  of  the 
pass,  counted  the  watercourses  and  gullies 
crossing  the  ascent,  tried  to  fix  the  elevations 
in  her  mind. 

As  long  as  she  dared  she  studied  the  soiled 
map,  but,  presently,  a  quick  shadow  fell  across 
the  threshold,  and  she  thrust  the  map  into 
the  concealed  pocket  and  sprang  to  open  the 
door. 


214  Special  Messenger 

"  Coming  military  events  cast  foreboding 
shadows,"  she  said,  somewhat  breathless. 

"  Am  I  a  foreboding  and  military  event  ?  " 
asked  the  youthful  major,  laughing.  "  What 
do  I  threaten,  please  ?  " 

"  Single  combat,"  she  said  demurely,  smil 
ing  at  him  under  half-veiled  lids.  And  the 
same  little  thrill  passed  through  him  again, 
and  the  quick  color  rose  to  his  smooth,  sun 
burnt  face. 

"  I  was  ready  to  beat  a  retreat  on  sight,"  he 
said ;  "  now  I  surrender." 

"  I  make  no  prisoners,"  she  replied  in  airy 
disdain. 

"  You  give  no  quarter?  " 

"  None.  .  .  .  Why  did  you  come  back  ?  " 

"You  said  I  might." 

"  Did  I  ?  I  had  quite  forgotten  what  I  had 
said  to  you.  When  are  you  going  to  let  me 
go?" 

His  face  fell  and  he  looked  up  at  her, 
troubled. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand,"  he  said. 
"  We  dare  not  send  you  away  under  escort 
now,  because  horses'  feet  make  a  noise,  and 
some  prowling  Yankee  vidette  may  be  at  this 
very  moment  hanging  about  the  pass — 


The  Pass  215 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  you  prefer  to  let  me  re 
main  here  and  be  shot  ?  " 

He  said,  reddening :  "  At  the  first  volley  you 
are  to  go  with  an  escort  across  the  ridge.  I 
told  you  that,  didn't  I  ?  " 

But  she  remained  scornful,  mute  and  obsti 
nate,  pretty  head  bent,  twisting  the  folds  of 
her  faded  skirt. 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  let  you  remain  here 
if  there  were  any  danger?"  he  asked  in  a 
lower  voice. 

"  How  long  am  I  to  be  kept  here  ?  "  she 
asked  pettishly. 

"  Until  the  Yankees  come  through — and  I 
can't  tell  you  when  that  will  be,  because  I 
don't  know  myself." 

"  Are  they  in  the  pass  ?  " 

"  We  don't  know.  Everybody  is  beginning 
to  be  worried.  We  can't  see  very  far  into  that 
ravine " 

"  Then  why  don't  you  go  where  you  can 
see  ?  "  she  said  with  a  shrug. 

"  Where  ?  "  he  asked,  surprised. 

"  Didn't  you  know  that  there  is  a  path  above 
the  pass  ?  " 

"  A  path !  " 

"  Certainly.     I  can  show  you  if  you  wish. 


216  Special  Messenger 

You  ought  to  be  able  to  see  to  the  north  end 
of  the  pass — if  I  am  not  mistaken " 

"  Wait  a  moment !  "  he  said  excitedly.  "  I 
want  you  to  take  me  there — just  a  second,  to 
speak  to  those  officers — I'm  coming  back  im 
mediately " 

And  he  started  on  a  run  across  the  ravaged 
garden,  holding  his  sabre  close,  midway,  by 
the  scabbard. 

That  was  her  chance.  Picking  up  her  faded 
sunbonnet,  she  stepped  from  the  threshold, 
swinging  it  carelessly  by  one  string.  The  sen 
tries  were  looking  after  the  major ;  she 
dropped  her  sunbonnet,  stooped  to  recover  it, 
and  straightened  up,  the  hidden  hand  grenade 
slipping  from  the  crown  of  the  bonnet  into 
her  bodice  between  her  breasts. 

A  thousand  eyes  seemed  watching  her  as,  a 
trifle  pale,  she  strolled  on  aimlessly,  swinging 
the  recovered  sunbonnet;  she  listened,  shiver 
ing,  for  the  stern  challenge  to  halt,  the  breath 
less  shout  of  accusation,  the  pursuing  trample 
of  heavy  boots.  And  at  last,  quaking  in  every 
limb,  she  ventured  to  lift  her  eyes.  Nobody 
seemed  to  be  looking  her  way ;  the  artillery 
pickets  were  still  watching  the  pass ;  the  group 
of  officers  posted  under  the  trees  still  focused 


She  dropped  her  sunbonnet — stooped  to  recover  it. 


The  Pass  217 

their  glasses  in  that  direction;  the  young 
major  was  already  returning  across  the  gar 
den  toward  her. 

A  sharp  throb  of  hope  set  her  pulses  bound 
ing — she  had,  safe  in  her  bosom,  the  means 
of  warning  her  own  people  now;  all  she 
needed  was  a  safe-conduct  from  that  knoll, 
and  here  it  was  coming,  brought  by  this  eager, 
boyish  officer,  hastening  so  bjithely  toward  her, 
his  long,  dark  shadow  clinging  like  death  to 
his  spurred  heels  as  he  ran. 

Would  she  guide  him  to  some  spot  where 
it  was  possible  to  see  the  whole  length  of  the 
pass? 

She  nodded,  not  trusting  herself  to  speak, 
and  turned,  he  at  her  side,  into  the  woods. 

If  her  map  was  not  betraying  her  once  more 
the  path  must  follow  the  edges  of  the  pass, 
high  up  among  those  rocks  and  trees  some 
where.  There  was  only  one  way  of  finding 
it — to  climb  upward  to  the  overhanging  ledges. 

Raising  her  eyes  toward  the  leafy  heights, 
it  seemed  to  her  incredible  that  any  path  could 
lead  along  that  wall  of  rock,  which  leaned 
outward  over  the  ravine. 

But  somehow  she  must  mount  there ;  some 
how  she  must  manage  to  remain  there  unmo- 


2i8  Special  Messenger 

lested,  ready,  the  moment  a  single  Union 
vidette  cantered  into  the  pass,  to  hurl  her  ex 
plosive  messenger  into  the  depths  below — a 
startling  but  unmistakable  signal  to  the  blue 
column  advancing  so  unsuspiciously  into  that 
defile  of  hell. 

As  they  climbed  upward  together  through 
the  holly-scrub  she  remembered  that  she  must 
not  slip,  for  the  iron  weight  in  her  bosom 
would  endure  no  rough  caress  from  rock  or 
earth. 

How  heavy  it  was — how  hot  and  rough, 
chafing  her  body — this  little  iron  sphere,  with 
a  dozen  deaths  sealed  up  inside ! 

Toiling  upward,  planting  her  roughly  shod 
feet  with  fearful  precision,  she  tried  to  im 
agine  what  it  would  be  like  if  the  tiny  bomb 
in  her  bosom  exploded — tried  to  picture  her 
terrified  soul  tearing  skyward  out  of  bodily 
annihilation. 

"  It  is  curious,"  she  thought  with  a  slight 
shudder,  "  how  afraid  I  always  am — how 
deeply,  deeply  afraid  of  death.  God  knows 
why  I  go  on." 

The  boy  beside  her  found  the  ascent  dif 
ficult  ;  spur  and  sabre  impeded  him ;  once  he 
lurched  heavily  against  her,  and  his  quick, 


The  Pass  219 

stammered  apology  was  cut  short  by  the 
dreadful  pallor  of  her  face,  for  she  was  deadly 
afraid  of  the  bomb. 

"  Did  I  hurt  you  ?  "  he  faltered,  impulsively 
laying  his  hand  on  her  arm. 

She  shivered  -and  shook  off  his  hand,  forc 
ing  a  gay  smile.  And  they  went  on  together, 
upward,  always  upward,  her  pretty,  provoca 
tive  eyes  meeting  his  at  intervals,  her  heart 
beating  faster,  death  at  her  breast. 

He  was  a  few  yards  ahead  when  he  called 
back  to  her  in  a  low,  warning  voice  that  he 
had  found  a  path,  and  she  hastened  up  the 
rocks  to  where  he  stood. 

Surely  here  was  a  trail  winding  along  the 
very  edge  of  the  ledges,  under  masses  of  over 
hanging  rock — some  dizzy  runway  of  prehis 
toric  man,  perhaps  trodden,  too,  by  wolf  and 
panther,  and  later  by  the  lank  mountaineer 
hunter  or  smuggler  creeping  to  some  eerie 
unsuspected  by  any  living  creature  save,  per 
haps,  the  silver-headed  eagles  soaring  through 
the  fathomless  azure  vault  above. 

Below,  the  pass  lay;  but  they  could  see  no 
farther  into  it  at  first.  However,  as  they  ad 
vanced  cautiously,  clinging  to  the  out  jutting 
cliff,  which  seemed  maliciously  striving  to 


220  Special  Messenger 

push  them  out  into  space,  by  degrees  crag  and 
trail  turned  westward  and  more  of  the  pass 
came  into  view — a  wide,  smooth  cleft  in  the 
mountain,  curving  away  toward  the  north. 

A  few  steps  more  and  the  trail  ended 
abruptly  in  a  wide,  grassy  space  set  with  trees, 
sloping  away  gently  to  the  west,  chopped  off 
sheer  to  the  east,  where  it  terminated  in  a 
mossy  shelf  overlooking  the  ravine. 

Only  a  few  rods  away  the  dusk  of  the  pass 
was  cut  by  a  glimmer  of  sunlight ;  it  was  the 
northern  entrance. 

Something  else  was  glimmering  there,  too; 
dozens  of  dancing  points  of  white  fire — sun 
shine  on  buckle,  button,  bit  and  sabre.  And 
the  officer  beside  her  uttered  a  low,  fierce  cry 
and  jerked  his  field  glasses  free  from  the  case. 

"  Their  cavalry ! "  he  breathed.  "  The 
Yankees  are  entering  the  pass,  so  help  me 
God !  "  And  he  drew  his  revolver. 

So  help  him  God !  Something  dark  and 
round  flew  across  his  line  of  vision,  curving 
out  into  space,  dropping,  dropping  into  the 
depths  below.  A  clattering  report,  a  louder 
racket  as  the  rocky  echoes,  crossing  and  re- 
crossing,  struck  back  at  the  clamoring  cliffs. 

So  help  him  God!    Half  stunned,  he  stum- 


White-faced,  desperate,  she    clung  to  him  with  the  tenacity 
of  a  lynx." 


The  Pass  221 

bled  to  his  feet,  his  dazed  eyes  still  blurred 
with  a  vision  of  horsemen,  vaguely  seen 
through  vapors,  stampeding  northward;  and, 
at  the  same  instant,  she  sprang  at  him,  strik 
ing  the  drawn  revolver  from  his  hand,  tearing 
the  sabre  free  and  flinging  it  into  the  gulf. 
White-faced,  desperate,  she  clung  to  him  with 
the  tenacity  of  a  lynx,  winding  her  lithe  limbs 
around  and  under  his,  tripping  him  to  his 
knees. 

Over  and  over  they  rolled,  struggling  in 
the  grass,  twisting,  straining,  slipping  down 
the  westward  slope. 

"  You — devil !  "  he  panted,  as  her  dark  eyes 
flashed  level  with  his.  "  I've  got — you — any 
how " 

Her  up-flung  elbow,  flexed  like  a  steel 
wedge,  caught  him  in  the  throat ;  they  fell 
over  the  low  ridge,  writhing  in  each  other's 
embrace,  down  the  slope,  over  and  over,  faster, 
faster — crack ! — his  head  struck  a  ledge,  and 
he  straightened  out,  quivering,  then  lay  very, 
very  still  and  heavy  in  her  arms. 

Fiercely  excited,  she  tore  strips  from  her 
skirt,  twisted  them,  forced  him  over  on  his 
face,  and  tied  his  wrists  fast. 

Then,  leaving  him  inert  there  on  the  moss, 


222 


Special  Messenger 


she  ran  back  for  his  revolver,  found  it,  opened 
it,  made  certain  that  the  cylinder  was  full,  and, 
flinging  one  last  glance  down  the  pass,  has 
tened  to  her  prisoner. 

Her  prisoner  opened  his  eyes ;  the  dark 
bruise  on  his  forehead  was  growing  redder 
and  wetter. 

"  Stand  up !  "  she  said,  cocking  her  weapon. 

The  boy,  half  stupefied,  struggled  to  his 
knees,  then  managed  to  rise. 

"  Go  forward  along  that  path  !  " 

For  a  full  minute  he  stood  erect,  motionless, 
eyes  fixed  on  her ;  then  shame  stained  him  to 
the  temples ;  he  turned,  head  bent,  and  walked 
forward,  wrists  tightly  tied  behind  him. 

And  behind  him,  weapon  swinging,  followed 
the  Special  Messenger  in  her  rags,  pallid,  di 
sheveled,  her  dark  eyes  dim  with  pity. 


VIII 


EVER    AFTER 

— And  they  married,  and  had  many  children,  and 
lived  happy  ever  after.  Old  Tales. 

OR   two   days    the    signal    flags 
had  been  talking  to  each  other ; 
for  two  nights  the  fiery  torches 
had  been  conversing  about  that 
beleaguered  city  in  the  South. 
Division   after  division,    corps   after  corps, 
were  moving  forward ;  miles  of  wagons,  miles 
of    cavalry    in    sinuous    columns    unending, 
blackened  every  valley  road.    Later,  the  heavy 
223 


224  Special  Messenger 

Parrots  and  big  Dahlgrens  of  the  siege  train 
stirred  in  their  parked  lethargy,  and,  enormous 
muzzles  tilted,  began  to  roll  out  through  the 
valley  in  heavy  majesty,  shaking  the  ground 
as  they  passed,  guarded  by  masses  of  red  ar 
tillerymen. 

Day  after  day  crossed  cannon  flapped  on 
red  and  white  guidons ;  day  after  day  the  teams 
of  powerful  horses,  harnessed  in  twenties, 
trampled  through  the  valley,  headed  south. 

Off  the  sandy  headland  a  Federal  gunboat 
lay  at  anchor,  steam  up — a  blackened,  chunky, 
grimy  thing  of  timber  and  iron  plates,  streaked 
with  rust,  smoke  blowing  horizontally  from 
her  funnels.  And  day  after  day  she  consulted 
hill  and  headland  with  her  kaleidoscopic 
strings  of  flags;  and  headland  and  hill  talked 
back  with  fluttering  bunting  by  day  and  with 
torches  of  fire  by  night. 

From  her  window  in  the  emergency  hospi 
tal  the  Special  Messenger  could  see  those  flags 
as  she  sat  pensively  sewing.  Sometimes  she 
mended  the  remnants  of  her  silken  stockings 
and  the  last  relics  of  the  fine  under  linen  left 
her ;  sometimes  she  scraped  lint  or  sewed  poul 
tice  bandages,  or  fashioned  havelocks  for  regi 
ments  southward  bound. 


Ever  After  225 

She  had  grown  slimmer,  paler,  of  late;  her 
beautiful  hair  had  been  sheared  close ;  her 
head,  covered  with  thick,  clustering  curls,  was 
like  the  shapely  head  of  a  boy.  Limbs  and 
throat  were  still  smooth  and  round,  but  had 
become  delicate  almost  to  leanness. 

The  furlough  she  had  applied  for  had  not 
yet  arrived;  she  seemed  to  remain  as  hope 
lessly  entangled  in  the  web  of  war  as  ever, 
watching,  without  emotion,  the  old  spider. 
Death,  busy  all  around  her,  tireless,  sinister, 
absorbed  in  his  own  occult  affairs. 

The  routine  varied  but  little:  at  dawn  sur 
geons'  call  chorused  by  the  bugles;  files  of 
haggard,  limping,  clay-faced  men,  headed  by 
sergeants,  all  converging  toward  the  hospital ; 
later,  in  every  camp,  drums  awaking;  distant 
strains  of  regimental  bands  at  parade ;  and  all 
day  and  all  night  the  far  rumble  of  railroad 
trains,  the  whistle  of  locomotives,  and,  if  the 
wind  veered,  the  faint,  melancholy  cadence  of 
the  bells  swinging  for  a  clear  track  and  right 
of  way. 

Sometimes,  sewing  by  the  open  window,  she 
thought  of  her  brother,  now  almost  thirteen — 
thought,  trembling,  of  his  restless  letters  from 
his  Northern  school,  demanding  of  her  that 


226  Special  Messenger 

he  be  permitted  to  take  his  part  in  war  for  the 
Union,  begging  to  be  enlisted  at  least  as  drum 
mer  in  a  nine-months'  regiment  which  was 
recruiting  within  sight  of  the  dormitory 
where  he  fretted  over  Caesar  and  the  happy 
warriors  of  the  Tenth  Legion. 

Sometimes,  mending  the  last  shreds  of  her 
cambric  finery,  she  thought  of  her  girlhood, 
of  the  white  porches  at  Sandy  River;  and 
always,  always,  the  current  of  her  waking 
dream  swung  imperceptibly  back  to  that  swift 
crisis  in  her  life — a  flash  of  love — love  at  the 
first  glance — a  word !  and  his  regiment,  sabres 
glittering,  galloping  pell-mell  into  the  thunder 
ing  inferno  between  the  hills.  .  .  .  And  sun 
set  ;  and  the  wounded  passing  by  wagon  loads, 
piled  in  the  blood-soaked  hay ;  and  the  glimpse 
of  his  limp  gold-and-yellow  sleeve — and  her 
own  white  bed,  and  her  lover  of  a  day  lying 
there — dead 

At  this  point  in  the  dream-tale  her  eyes 
usually  became  too  dim  to  see  the  stitches,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  except  to  wait  until 
the  tired  eyes  were  dry  again. 

The  sentry  on  duty  knocked,  opened  the 
door,  and  admitted  a  weather-stained  aide-de 
camp,  warning  her  respectfully : 


Ever  After  227 

"  Orders  for  you,  ma'am." 

The  Special  Messenger  cleared  her  eyes, 
breathing  unevenly,  and  unsealed  the  dispatch 
which  the  officer  handed  her. 

When  she  read  it  she  opened  a  door  and 
called  sharply  to  a  hospital  orderly,  who  came 
running : 

"  Fit  me  with  a  rebel  cavalry  uniform — 
you've  got  that  pile  of  disinfected  clothing  in 
the  basement.  I  also  want  one  of  our  own 
cavalry  uniforms  to  wear  over  it — anything 
that  has  been  cleaned.  Quick,  Williams ;  I've 
only  a  few  minutes  to  saddle !  And  bring  me 
that  bundle  of  commissions  taken  from  the 
rebel  horsemen  that  were  brought  in  yester 
day." 

And  to  the  mud-splashed  aide-de-camp  who 
stood  waiting,  looking  out  of  the  window  at 
the  gunboat  which  was  now  churning  in 
toward  the  wharf,  billows  of  inky  smoke  pour 
ing  from  the  discolored  stacks : 

"  Please  tell  the  general  that  I  go  aboard 
in  half  an  hour.  Tell  him  I'll  do  my  best." 
In  a  lower  voice :  "  Ask  him  not  to  forget  my 
brother — if  matters  go  wrong  with  me.  He 
has  given  me  his  word.  .  .  .  And  I  think  that 
is  all,  thank  you." 
16 


228  Special  Messenger 

The  A.-D.-C.  said,  standing  straight,  hol 
low-backed,  spurred  heels  together: 

"  Orders  are  verbally  modified,  madam." 

"What?" 

"If  you  do  not  care  to  go — it  is  not  an 
order — merely  a  matter  of  volunteering.  .  .  . 
The  general  makes  no  question  of  your  cour 
age  if  you  choose  to  decline." 

She  said,  looking  at  the  officer  a  little 
wearily : 

'  Thank  the  general.  It  will  give  me  much 
pleasure  to  fulfill  his  request.  Ask  him  to  bear 
my  brother  in  mind ;  that  is  all." 

The  A.-D.-C.  bowed  to  her,  cap  in  hand, 
then  went  out,  making  considerable  racket 
with  sabre  and  boots. 

Half  an  hour  later  a  long,  deep,  warning 
blast  from  the  gunboat's  whistle  set  the  echoes 
flying  through  the  hills. 

Aboard,  leading  her  horse,  the  Special  Mes 
senger,  booted  and  spurred,  in  a  hybrid  uni 
form  of  a  subaltern  of  regulars,  handed  the 
bridle  to  a  sailor  and  turned  to  salute  the 
quarterdeck. 

The  United  States  gunboat,  Kioiva,  dropped 
anchor  at  the  railroad  wharf  two  days  later, 


Ever  After  229 

and  ran  out  a  blackened  gangplank.  Over  it 
the  Special  Messenger,  wrapped  in  her  rubber 
cloak,  led  her  horse  to  shore,  mounted,  and 
galloped  toward  the  hill  where  the  flag  of 
corps  headquarters  was  flapping  in  the  wet 
wind. 

The  rain  ended  as  she  rode  inland;  ahead 
of  her  a  double  rainbow  glowed  and  slowly 
faded  to  a  rosy  nimbus. 

Corps  headquarters  was  heavily  impressive 
and  paternally  polite,  referring  her  to  head 
quarters  of  the  unattached  cavalry  division. 

She  remounted,  setting  her  horse  at  an  easy 
canter  for  the  intervening  two  miles,  riding 
through  acres  of  tents  and  vistas  of  loaded 
wagon  trains ;  and  at  last  an  exceedingly  or 
namental  staff  officer  directed  her  to  her 
destination,  and  a  few  moments  later  she  dis 
mounted  and  handed  her  bridle  to  an  orderly, 
whose  curiously  fashioned  forage  cap  seemed 
strangely  familiar. 

As  the  Special  Messenger  entered  his  tent 
and  saluted,  the  colonel  of  the  Fourth  Mis 
souri  Cavalry  rose  from  a  camp  chair,  stand 
ing  over  six  feet  in  his  boots.  He  was  mag 
nificently  built ;  his  closely  clipped  hair  was 
dark  and  curly,  his  skin  smoothly  bronzed  and 


230  Special  Messenger 

flushed  at  the  cheek  bones ;  his  allure  that  of 
a  very  splendid  and  grave  and  youthful  god, 
save  for  the  gayly  impudent  uptwist  of  his 
short  mustache  and  the  stilled  humor  in  his 
steady  eyes. 

His  uniform  was  entirely  different  from 
the  regulation — he  wore  a  blue  forage  cap 
with  short,  heavy  visor  of  unpolished  leather 
shadowing  the  bridge  of  his  nose ;  his  dark 
blue  jacket  was  shell-cut;  over  it  he  wore  a 
slashed  dolman  trimmed  at  throat,  wrists  and 
edges  with  fur ;  his  breeches  were  buff ;  his 
boots  finished  at  the  top  with  a  yellow  cord 
forming  a  heart-shaped  knot  in  front ;  at  his 
heels  trailed  the  most  dainty  and  rakish  of 
sabres,  light,  graceful,  curved  almost  like  a 
scimiter. 

All  this  is  what  the  Special  Messenger  saw 
as  she  entered,  instantly  recognizing  a  regi 
mental  uniform  which  she  had  never  seen  but 
once  before  in  her  brief  life.  And  straight 
through  her  heart  struck  a  pain  swift  as  a 
dagger  thrust,  and  her  hand  in  its  buckskin 
gauntlet  fell  limply  from  the  peak  of  her  visor, 
and  the  color  died  in  her  cheeks. 

What  the  colonel  of  the  Fourth  Missouri 
saw  before  him  was  a  lad,  slim,  rather  pale, 


Ever  After  231 

dark-eyed,  swathed  to  the  chin  in  the  folds  of 
a  wet  poncho ;  and  he  said,  examining  her 
musingly  and  stroking  the  ends  of  his  curt 
mustache  upward : 

"  I  understood  from  General  Sheridan  that 
the  Special  Messenger  was  to  report  to  me. 
Where  is  she  ?  " 

The  lightning  pain  of  the  shock  when  she 
recognized  the  uniform  interfered  with  breath 
and  speech ;  confused,  she  raised  her  gloved 
hand  and  laid  it  unconsciously  over  her 
heart ;  and  the  colonel  of  the  Fourth  Missouri 
waited. 

"  I  am  the  Special  Messenger,"  she  said 
faintly. 

For  a  moment  he  scarcely  understood  that 
this  slender  young  fellow,  with  dark  hair  as 
closely  clipped  and  as  curly  as  his  own,  could 
be  a  woman.  Stern  surprise  hardened  his  nar 
rowing  gaze ;  he  stood  silent,  handsome  head 
high,  looking  down  at  her ;  then  slowly  the 
latent  humor  flickered  along  the  edges  of  lip 
and  lid,  curbed  instantly  as  he  bowed,  fault 
less,  handsome — only  the  persistently  upturned 
mustache  impairing  the  perfectly  detached  and 
impersonal  decorum  with  a  warning  of  the 
beau  sabreur  behind  it  all. 


232  Special  Messenger 

"  Will  you  be  seated,  madam  ?  " 

"  Thank  you." 

She  sat  down ;  the  wet  poncho  was  hot  and 
she  shifted  it,  throwing  one  end  across  her 
shoulder.  In  her  uniform  she  appeared  wil 
lowy  and  slim,  built  like  a  boy,  and  with  noth 
ing  of  that  graceful  awkwardness  which 
almost  inevitably  betrays  such  masqueraders. 
For  her  limbs  were  straight  at  the  knees  and 
faultlessly  coupled,  and  there  seemed  to  be 
the  adolescent's  smooth  lack  of  development 
in  the  scarcely  accented  hips — only  a  straightly 
flowing  harmony  of  proportion — a  lad's  grace 
muscularly  undeveloped. 

Two  leather  straps  crossed  her  breast,  one 
weighted  with  field  glasses,  the  other  with  a 
pouch.  From  the  latter  she  drew  her  creden 
tials  and  would  have  risen  to  present  them, 
but  the  colonel  of  the  Fourth  Missouri  de 
tained  her  with  a  gesture,  himself  rose,  and 
took  the  papers  from  her  hand. 

While  he  sat  reading,  she,  hands  clasped  in 
her  lap,  gazed  at  his  well-remembered  uni 
form,  busy  with  her  memories  once  more,  and 
the  sweetness  of  them — and  the  pain. 

They  were  three  years  old,  these  memories, 
now  glimmering  alive  again  amid  the  whiten- 


Ever  After  233 

ing  ashes  of  the  past;  only  three  years — and 
centuries  seemed  to  dim  the  landmarks  and 
bar  the  backward  path  that  she  was  following 
to  her  girlhood! 

She  thought  of  the  white-pillared  house  as 
it  stood  at  the  beginning  of  the  war ;  the  sever 
ing  of  old  ties,  the  averted  faces  of  old  friends 
and  neighbors ;  the  mortal  apprehension,  end 
less  suspense;  the  insurgent  flags  fluttering 
from  porch  and  portico  along  the  still,  tree- 
shaded  street;  her  own  heart-breaking  isola 
tion  in  the  community  when  Sumter  fell — she 
an  orphan,  alone  there  with  her  brother  and 
bedridden  grandfather. 

And  she  remembered  the  agony  that  fol 
lowed  the  news  from  Bull  Run,  the  stupor 
that  fell  upon  her;  the  awful  heat  of  that 
battle  summer;  her  evening  prayers,  kneeling 
there  beside  her  brother ;  the  red  moons  that 
rose,  enormous,  menacing,  behind  the  trees ; 
and  the  widow  bird  calling,  calling  to  the  dead 
that  never  answer  more. 

Her  dead?  Why  hers?  A  chance  regi 
ment  passing — cavalry  wearing  the  uniform 
and  number  of  the  Fourth  Missouri.  Ah !  she 
could  see  them  again,  sun-scorched,  dusty, 
fours  crowding  on  fours,  trampling  past.  She 


234  Special  Messenger 

could  see  a  young  girl  in  white,  fastening  the 
long-hidden  flag  to  its  halyards  as  the  evening 
light  faded  on  the  treetops !  .  .  .  And  then — 
and  then — he  came — into  her  life,  into  her 
house,  into  her  heart,  alas! — tall,  lean,  calm- 
eyed,  yellow-haired,  wrapped  in  the  folds  of 
his  long,  blue  mantle !  .  .  .  And  she  saw  him 
again — a  few  moments  before  his  regiment 
charged  into  that  growling  thunder  beyond 
the  hills  somewhere. 

And  a  third  time,  and  the  last,  she  saw  him, 
deathly  still,  lying  on  her  own  bed,  and  a 
medical  officer  pulling  the  sheet  up  over  his 
bony  face. 

The  colonel  of  the  Fourth  Missouri  was 
looking  curiously  at  her ;  she  started,  cleared 
the  dimness  from  her  eyes,  and  steadied  the 
trembling  underlip. 

After  a  moment's  silence  the  colonel  said: 
"  You  undertake  this  duty  willingly  ?  " 

She  nodded,  quietly  touching  her  eyes  with 
her  handkerchief. 

"  There  is  scarcely  a  chance  for  you,"  he 
observed  with  affected  carelessness. 

She  lifted  her  shoulders  in  weary  disdain 
of  that  persistent  shadow  called  danger,  which 


Ever  After  235 

had  long  since  become  too  familiar  to  count 
very  heavily. 

"  I  am  not  afraid — if  that  is  what  you 
mean.  Do  you  think  you  can  get  me 
through?" 

The  colonel  said  coolly :  "  I  expect  to  do  my 
part.  Have  you  a  rebel  uniform?" 

She  nodded. 

"  Where  is  it  ?  " 

"  On  me — under  this." 

The  colonel  looked  at  her;  a  slight  shudder 
passed  over  him. 

"  These  orders  suggest  that  I  start  before 
sunset,"  he  said.  "  Meanwhile  this  tent  is 
yours.  My  orderly  will  serve  you.  The  regi 
ment  will  move  out  about  sunset  with  some 
six  hundred  sabres  and  Gray's  Rhode  Island 
flying  battery." 

He  walked  to  the  tent  door ;  she  followed. 

"Is  that  your  horse?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  Colonel." 

"  Fit  for  the  work  ?  "  turning  to  look  at  her. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"And  >-ow?" 

She  smiled ;  through  the  open  tent  a  misty 
bar  of  sunshine  fell  across  her  face,  turning 
the  smooth  skin  golden.  Outside  a  dismounted 


236  Special  Messenger 

trooper  on  guard  presented  his  carbine  as  the 
tall,  young  colonel  strode  out.  An  orderly 
joined  him ;  they  stood  a  moment  consulting 
in  whispers,  then  the  orderly  ran  for  his  sad 
dled  horse,  mounted,  and  rode  off  through  the 
lanes  of  the  cavalry  camp. 

From  the  tent  door  the  Special  Messenger 
looked  out  into  the  camp.  Under  the  base  of 
a  grassy  hill  hundreds  of  horses  were  being 
watered  at  a  brook  now  discolored  by  the 
recent  rains ;  beyond,  on  a  second  knoll,  the 
guns  of  a  flying  battery  stood  parked.  She 
could  see  the  red  trimmings  on  the  gunners' 
jackets  as  they  were  lounging  about  in  the 
grass. 

The  view  from  the  tent  door  was  extensive ; 
a  division,  at  least,  lay  encamped  within  range 
of  the  eye ;  two  roads  across  the  hills  were 
full  of  wagons  moving  south  and  east ;  along 
another  road,  stretching  far  into  the  valley, 
masses  of  cavalry  were  riding — apparently  an 
entire  brigade — but  too  far  away  for  her  to 
hear  the  trample  of  the  horses. 

From  where  she  stood,  however,  she  could 
make  out  the  course  of  a  fourth  road  by  the 
noise  of  an  endless,  moving  column  of  horses. 
At  times,  above  the  hillside,  she  could  see  their 


Ever  After  237 

heads,  and  the  enormous  canvas-covered  muz 
zles  of  siege  guns;  and  the  racket  of  hoofs, 
the  powerful  crunching  and  grinding  of 
wheels,  the  cries  of  teamsters  united  in  a  dull, 
steady  uproar  that  never  ceased. 

From  their  camp,  troopers  of  the  Fourth 
Missouri  were  idly  watching  the  artillery 
passing — hundreds  of  sunburned  cavalrymen 
seated  along  the  hillside,  feet  dangling,  ex 
changing  gibes  and  jests  with  the  drivers  of 
the  siege  train  below.  But  from  where  she 
stood  she  could  see  nothing  except  horses' 
heads  tossing,  blue  caps  of  mounted  men,  a 
crimson  guidon  flapping,  or  the  sun  glittering 
on  the  slender,  curved  blade  of  some  officer's 
sabre  as  he  signaled. 

North,  east,  west,  south — the  whole  land 
seemed  to  be  covered  with  moving  men  and 
beasts  and  wagons ;  flags  fluttered  on  every 
eminence ;  tents  covered  plowed  fields,  pas 
tures,  meadows ;  smoke  hung  over  all,  crown 
ing  the  green  woods  with  haze,  veiling  hol 
lows,  rolling  along  the  railway  in  endless, 
yellow  billows. 

The  rain  had  washed  the  sky  clean,  but 
again  this  vast,  advancing  host  was  soiling 
heaven  and  blighting  earth  as  it  passed  over 


238  Special  Messenger 

the  land  toward  that  beleaguered  city  in  the 
South. 

War!  Everywhere  the  monotony  of  this 
awful  panorama,  covering  her  country  day 
after  day,  month  after  month,  year  after  year 
— war,  always  and  everywhere  and  in  every 
stage — hordes  of  horses,  hordes  of  men,  end 
less 'columns  of  deadly  engines!  Everywhere, 
always,  death,  or  the  preparation  for  death — 
every  road  and  footpath  crammed  with  it, 
every  field  trampled  by  it,  every  woodland 
shattered  by  it,  every  stream  running  thick 
with  its  pollution.  The  sour  smell  of  march 
ing  men,  the  stale  taint  of  unclean  fires,  the 
stench  of  beasts — the  acrid,  indescribable  odor 
that  hangs  on  the  sweating  flanks  of  armies 
seemed  to  infect  sky  and  earth. 

A  trooper,  munching  an  apple  and  carrying 
a  truss  of  hay,  passed,  cap  cocked  rakishly, 
sabre  banging  at  his  heels ;  and  she  called  to 
him  and  he  came  up,  easily  respectful  under 
the  grin  of  bodily  well  being. 

"  How  long  have  you  served  in  this  regi 
ment  ? "  she  asked. 

He  swallowed  the  bite  of  apple  which 
crowded  out  his  freckled  cheeks :  "  Three 
years,  sir." 


We  was  there— I  know  that;  yes,  an'  we  had  a  fight.'" 


Ever  After  239 

She  drew  involuntarily  nearer  the  tent  door. 

"  Then — you  were  at  Sandy  River — three 
years  ago  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  battle  there  ?  " 

The  soldier  looked  doubtful.  "  We  was 
there — I  know  that;  yes,  an'  we  had  a 
fight " 

"  Yes — near  a  big  white  house." 

The  soldier  nodded.  "  I  guess  so ;  I  don't 
seem  to  place  no  big  white  house " 

She  asked  calmly :  "  Your  regiment  had  a 
mounted  band  once  ?  " 

He  brightened. 

"  Yes,  sir-ee !  They  played  us  in  at  Sandy 
River — and  they  got  into  it,  too,  and  was  cut 
all  to  pieces !  " 

She  motioned  assent  wearily ;  then,  with  an 
effort :  "  You  don't  know,  perhaps,  where  he 
— where  their  bandmaster  was  buried  ?  " 

"Sir?" 

"  The  bandmaster  of  the  Fourth  Missouri  ? 
You  remember  him — that  tall,  thin  young 
officer  who  led  them  with  his  sabre — who  sat 
his  horse  like  a  colonel  of  regulars — and  wore 
a  cap  of  fur  like — like  a  hussar  of  some 
militia  State  guard " 


240  Special  Messenger 

"  Well,  you  must  mean  Captain  Stanley, 
who  was  at  that  time  bandmaster  of  our  regi 
ment.  He  went  in  that  day  at  Sandy  River 
when  our  mounted  band  was  cut  to  pieces. 
Orders  was  to  play  us  in,  an'  he  done  it." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  Where  is  he — buried  ?  "  she  asked  calmly. 

"  Buried  ?    Why,  he  ain't  dead,  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  died  at  Sandy  River — that  day,"  she 
said  gently.  "Don't  you  remember?" 

"  No,  sir ;  our  bandmaster  wasn't  killed  at 
Sandy  River." 

She  looked  at  him  amazed,  almost  fright 
ened. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  He  is  dead.  I — saw 
him  die." 

"  It  must  have  been  some  other  bandmaster 
— not  Captain  Stanley." 

"  I  saw  the  bandmaster  of  your  regiment, 
the  Fourth  Missouri  Cavalry,  brought  into 
that  big  white  house  and  laid  on  my — on  a 

bed "  She  stared  at  the  boy,  caught  him 

by  the  sleeve:  "  He  is  dead,  isn't  he?  Do  you 
know  what  you  are  telling  me?  Do  you  un 
derstand  what  I  am  saying  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  Captain  Stanley  was  our  band 
master — he  wasn't  captain  then,  of  course. 


Ever  After  241 

He  played  us  in  at  Sandy  River — by  God!  I 
oughter  know,  because  I  got  some  cut  up 
m'self." 

"  You— you  tell  me  that  he  wasn't  killed  ?  " 
she  repeated,  steadying  herself  against  the 
canvas  flap. 

"  No,  sir.  I  heard  tell  he  was  badly  hurt — 
seems  like  I  kinder  remember — oh,  yes !  "  The 
man's  face  lighted  up.  "  Yes,  sir ;  Captain 
Stanley,  he  had  a  close  shave !  It  sorter  comes 
back  to  me  now,  how  the  burial  detail  fetched 
him  back  saying  they  wasn't  going  to  bury  no 
man  that  twitched  when  they  shut  his  coffin. 
Yes,  sir — but  it's  three  years  and  a  man  for 
gets,  and  I've  *  seen — things — lots  of  such 
things  in  three  years  with  Baring's  dragoons. 
Yes,  sir." 

She  closed  her  eyes ;  a  dizziness  swept  over 
her  and  she  swayed  where  she  stood. 

"Is  he  here?" 

"Who?  Captain  Stanley?  Yes,  sir.  Why, 
he's  captain  of  the  Black  Horse  troop — F, 
third  squadron.  .  .  .  They're  down  that  lane 
near  the  trees.  Shall  I  take  you  there  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  holding  tightly  to  the 
canvas  flap ;  and  the  trooper,  saluting  easily, 
resumed  his  truss  of  hay,  hitched  his  belt, 


242  Special  Messenger 

cocked  his  forage  cap,  and  went  off  whis 
tling. 

All  that  sunny  afternoon  she  lay  on  the 
colonel's  camp  bed,  hands  tightly  clenched  on 
her  breast,  eyes  closed  sometimes,  sometimes 
wide  open,  gazing  at  the  sun  spots  crawling 
on  the  tent  wall. 

To  her  ears  came  bugle  calls  from  distant 
hills ;  drums  of  marching  columns.  Sounds 
of  the  stirring  of  thousands  made  tremulous 
the  dim  silence  of  the  tent. 

Dreams  long  dead  arose  and  possessed  her 
— the  confused  dreams  of  a  woman,  still 
young,  awakened  from  the  passionless  leth 
argy  of  the  past. 

Vaguely  she  felt  around  her  the  presence  of 
an  earth  new  born,  of  a  new  heaven  created. 
She  realized  her  own  awakening;  she  strove 
to  comprehend  his  resurrection,  and  it  fright 
ened  her ;  she  could  not  understand  that  what 
was  dead  through  all  these  years  was  now 
alive,  that  the  ideal  she  had  clung  to,  evoking 
it  until  it  had  become  part  of  her,  was  real — 
an  actual  and  splendid  living  power.  In  this 
vivid  resurgence  she  seemed  to  lose  her  pre 
cise  recollections  of  him  now  that  he  was 
alive. 


Ever  After  243 

While  she  had  believed  him  dead,  everything 
concerning  his  memory  had  been  painfully 
real — his  personal  appearance,  the  way  he 
moved,  turned,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the 
touch  of  his  hand  as  it  tightened  in  hers 
when  he  lay  there  at  sunset,  while  she  and 
Death  watched  the  color  fading  from  his 
face. 

But  now — now  that  he  was  living — here  in 
this  same  world  with  her  again — strive  as  she 
would  she  could  neither  fix  either  his  features 
nor  the  sound  of  his  voice  upon  her  memory. 
Only  the  stupefying  wonder  of  it  possessed 
her,  dulling  her  senses  so  that  even  the  happi 
ness  of  it  seemed  unreal. 

How  would  they  meet  ? — they  two,  who  had 
never  met  but  thrice  ?  How  would  they  seem, 
each  to  the  other,  when  first  their  eyes  encoun 
tered  ? 

In  all  their  lives  they  had  exchanged  so  lit 
tle  speech !  Yet  from  the  first — from  the  first 
moment,  when  she  had  raised  her  gaze  to  him 
as  he  entered  in  his  long,  blue  cloak,  her  si 
lence  had  held  a  deeper  meaning  than  her 
speech.  And  on  that  blessed  night  instinct 
broke  the  silence ;  yet,  with  every  formal  word 
17 


244  Special  Messenger 


exchanged,  consciousness  of  the  occult  bond 
between  them  grew. 

But  it  was  not  until  she  thought  him  dead 
that  she  understood  that  it  had  been  love- 
love  unheralded,  unexpected,  incredible — love 
at  the  first  confronting,  the  first  encountering 
glance.  And  to  the  memory  of  that  mystery 
she  had  been  faithful  from  the  night  on  which 
she  believed  he  died. 

How  had  it  been  with  him  throughout  these 
years?  How  had  it  been  zvith  him? 

The  silvery  trumpets  of  the  cavalry  were 
still  sounding  as  she  mounted  her  horse  before 
the  colonel's  tent  and  rode  out  into  the  splen 
dour  of  the  setting  sun. 

On  every  side  cavalrymen  were  setting  toe 
to  stirrup ;  troop  after  troop,  forming  by 
fours,  trotted  out  to  the  crest  of  the  hill  where 
the  Western  light  lay  red  across  the  furrowed 
grass. 

A  blaze  of  brilliant  color  filled  the  road 
where  an  incoming  Zouave  regiment  had 
halted,  unslinging  knapsacks,  preparing  to 
encamp ;  and  the  setting  sun  played  over  them 
in  waves  of  fire,  striking  fiercely  across  their 
crimson  fezzes  and  trousers. 

Through  their  gorgeous  lines  the  cavalry 


Ever  After  245 

rode,  colonel  and  staff  leading ;  and  with  them 
rode  the  Special  Messenger,  knee  to  knee  with 
the  chief  trumpeter,  who  made  his  horse  dance 
when  he  passed  the  gorgeous  Zouave  color 
guard,  to  show  off  the  gridiron  of  yellow 
slashings  across  his  corded  and  tasseled 
breast. 

And  now  another  infantry  regiment  blocked 
the  way — a  heavy,  blue  column  tramping  in 
with  its  field  music  playing  and  both  flags  fly 
ing  in  the  sunset  radiance — the  Stars  and 
Stripes,  with  the  number  of  the  regiment 
printed  in  gold  across  crimson ;  and  the  State 
flag — white,  an  Indian  and  an  uplifted  sword 
on  the  snowy  field:  Massachusetts  infantry. 

On  they  came,  fifes  skirling,  drums  crash 
ing;  the  colonel  of  the  Fourth  Missouri  gave 
them  right  of  way,  saluting  their  colors ;  the 
Special  Messenger  backed  her  horse  and 
turned  down  along  the  column. 

Under  the  shadow  of  her  visor  her  dark 
eyes  widened  with  excitement  as  she  skirted 
the  halted  cavalry,  searching  the  intervals 
where  the  troop  captains  sat  their  horses, 
naked  sabres  curving  up  over  their  shoulder 
straps. 

"  Not  this  one !     Not  this  one,"  her  little 


246  Special  Messenger 

heart  beat  hurriedly ;  and  then,  without  warn 
ing,  panic  came,  and  she  spurred  up  to  the 
major  of  the  first  squadron. 

"  Where  is  Captain  Stanley  ?  "  Her  voice 
almost  broke. 

"  With  his  troop,  I  suppose — '  F,'  "  replied 
that  officer  calmly ;  and  her  heart  leaped  and 
the  color  flooded  her  face  as  she  saluted, 
wheeled,  and  rode  on  in  heavenly  certainty. 

A  New  York  regiment,  fresh  from  the 
North,  was  passing  now,  its  magnificent  band 
playing  "  Twinkling  Stars  " ;  and  the  horses 
of  the  cavalry  began  to  dance  and  paw  and 
toss  their  heads. 

One  splendid  black  animal  reared  suddenly 
and  shook  its  mane  out ;  and  at  the  same  mo 
ment  she  saw  him — knew  him — drew  bridle, 
her  heart  in  her  mouth,  her  body  all  a-tremble. 

He  was  mastering  the  black  horse  that  had 
reared,  sitting  his  saddle  easily,  almost  care 
lessly,  his  long,  yellow-striped  legs  loosely 
graceful,  his  straight,  slim  figure  perfect  in 
poise  and  balance. 

And  now  the  trumpets  were  sounding ;  cap 
tain  after  captain  turned  in  his  saddle,  swung 
his  sabre  forward,  repeating  the  order :  "  For 
ward — march !  Forward — march !  " 


Ever  After  247 

The  Special  Messenger  whirled  her  horse 
and  sped  to  the  head  of  the  column. 

"  I  was  just  beginning  to  wonder — "  began 
the  colonel,  when  she  broke  in,  breathless : 

"  May  I  ride  with  Captain  Stanley  of  F, 
sir?" 

"  Certainly,"  he  replied,  surprised  and  a 
trifle  amused.  She  hesitated,  nervously  pick 
ing  at  her  bridle,  then  said :  "  When  you  once 
get  me  through  their  lines — I  mean,  after  I 
am  safely  through  and  you  are  ready  to  turn 
around  and  leave  me — I — I  would  like — to 

"  Yes  ?  "  inquired  the  colonel,  gently,  divin 
ing  some  "  last  message  "  to  deliver.  For 
they  were  desperate  chances  that  she  was 
taking,  and  those  in  the  beleaguered  city 
would  show  her  no  mercy  if  they  ever  caught 
her  within  its  battered  bastions. 

But  the  Special  Messenger  only  said :  "  Be 
fore  your  regiment  goes  back,  may  I  tell  Cap 
tain  Stanley  who  I  am  ?  " 

The  colonel's  face  fell. 

"  Nobody  is  supposed  to  have  any  idea  who 
you  are ' 

"  I  know  it.  But  is  there  any  harm  if  I 
only  tell  it  to — to  just  this  one,  single  man?  " 


248  Special  Messenger 

she  asked,  earnestly,  not  aware  that  her  eyes 
as  well  as  her  voice  were  pleading — that  her 
whole  body,  bent  forward  in  the  saddle,  had 
become  eloquent  with  a  confession  as  winning 
as  it  was  innocent. 

The  colonel  looked  curiously  into  the  eager, 
flushed  face,  framed  in  its  setting  of  dark, 
curly  hair ;  then  he  lifted  a  gauntleted  hand 
from  his  bridle  and  slowly  stroked  his  crisp 
mustache  upward  to  hide  the  smile  he  could 
not  control. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  he  said  gravely,  "  that 
Captain  Stanley  was  the — ah — 'one'  and 
'  only  '  man." 

She  blushed  furiously ;  the  vivid  color  ran 
from  throat  to  temple,  burning  her  ears  till 
they  looked  like  rose  petals  caught  in  her 
dark  hair. 

"  You  may  tell  Captain  Stanley — if  you 
must,"  observed  the  colonel  of  the  Fourth 
Missouri.  He  was  gazing  absently  straight 
between  his  horse's  ears  when  he  spoke. 
After  a  few  moments  he  looked  at  the  sky 
where,  overhead,  the  afterglow  pulsated  in 
bands  of  fire. 

"  I  always  thought,"  he  murmured  to  him 
self,  "  that  old  Stanley  was  in  love  with  that 


Ever  After  249 

Southern  girl  he  saw  at  Sandy  River.  ...  I 
had  no  idea  he  knew  the  Special  Messenger. 
It  appears  that  I  am  slightly  in  error."  And, 
very  thoughtfully,  he  continued  to  twist  his 
mustache  skyward  as  he  rode  on. 

When  he  ventured  to  glance  around  again 
the  Special  Messenger  had  disappeared. 

"  Fancy !  "  he  muttered ;  "  fancy  old  Stan 
ley  knowing  the  mystery  of  the  three  armies ! 
And,  by  gad,  gentlemen !  "  addressing,  sotto 
voce,  the  entire  regiment,  as  he  turned  in  his 
stirrups  and  looked  back  at  the  darkening  col 
umn  behind  him — "  by  gad !  gentlemen  of  the 
Fourth  Dragoons,  no  prettier  woman  ever  sat 
a  saddle  than  is  riding  this  moment  with  the 
captain  of  Troop  F !  " 

What  Captain  Stanley  saw  riding  up  to 
him  through  the  dull  afterglow  was  a  slightly 
built  youth  in  the  uniform  of  the  regular  cav 
alry,  yellow  trimming  on  collar,  yellow  welts 
about  the  seams  of  the  jacket,  yellow  stripes 
on  the  breeches ;  and,  as  the  youth  drew 
bridle,  saluted,  and  turned  to  ride  forward 
beside  him,  he  caught  sight  of  a  lieutenant's 
shoulder  straps  on  the  sergeant's  shell  jacket. 

"  Well,  youngster,"  he  said,  smiling, 
"  don't  they  clothe  you  in  the  regulars  ? 


250  Special  Messenger 

You're  as  eccentric  as  our  butternut  friends 
yonder." 

"  I  couldn't  buy  a  full  uniform,"  she  said 
truthfully.  She  did  not  add  that  she  had  left 
at  a  minute's  notice  for  the  most  dangerous 
undertaking  ever  asked  of  her,  borrowing  dis 
carded  makeshifts  anywhere  at  hazard. 

"  Are  you  a  West  Pointer  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Oh !  You've  their  seat — and  their  shapely 
leanness.  Are  you  going  with  us?" 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

Stanley  laughed.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 
It  looks  .to  me  as  though  we  were  riding 
straight  into  rebeldom." 

"  Don't  you  know  why  ?  "  she  asked,  look 
ing  at  him  from  under  the  shadow  of  her 
visor. 

"  No.    Do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

After  a  pause :  "  Well,"  he  said,  laughing, 
"  are  you  going  to  tell  me?  " 

"  Yes — later." 

Neck  and  neck,  knee  and  knee  they  rode 
forward  at  the  head  of  the  Black  Horse  troop, 
along  a  road  which  became  dusky  beyond  the 
first  patch  of  woods. 


Ever  After  251 

After  the  inner  camp  lines  had  been  passed 
the  regiment  halted  while  a  troop  was  de 
tailed  as  flankers  and  an  advanced  guard  gal 
loped  off  ahead.  Along  the  road  behind,  the 
guns  of  the  Rhode  Island  Battery  came  thud 
ding  and  bumping  up,  halting  with  a  dull 
clash  of  chains. 

Stanley  said :  "  This  is  one  of  Baring's  pet 
raids ;  we've  done  it  dozens  of  times.  Once 
our  entire  division  rode  around  Beauregard ; 
but  I  didn't  see  the  old,  blue  star  division  flag 
this  time,  so  I  guess  we're  going  it  alone. 
Hello!  There's  infantry!  We  must  be  close 
to  the  extreme  outposts." 

In  the  dusk  they  were  passing  a  pasture 
where,  guarded  by  sentinels,  lay  piled,  in  end 
less,  straight  rows,  knapsacks,  blankets,  shel 
ter  tents,  and  long  lines  of  stacked  Springfield 
rifles.  Soldiers  with  the  white  strings  of  can 
teens  crossing  their  breasts  were  journeying 
to  and  from  a  stream  that  ran,  darkling,  out 
of  the  tangled  woodland  on  their  right. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  were  the 
lines  of  the  Seventieth  Indiana,  their  colors, 
furled  in  oilcloth,  lying  horizontally  across 
the  forks  of  two  stacks  of  rifles.  Under  them 
lay  the  color  guard;  the  scabbarded  swords 


252  Special  Messenger 

of  the  colonel  and  his  staff  were  stuck  up 
right  in  the  ground,  and  the  blanket-swathed 
figures  of  the  officers  in  poncho  and  have- 
lock  reposed  close  by. 

The  other  regiment  was  the  Eleventh 
Maine.  Their  colonel,  strapped  with  his  sil 
ver  eagles,  was  watching  the  disposal  of  the 
colors  by  a  sergeant  wearing  the  broad  stripe, 
blue  diamond  and  triple  underscoring  on  each 
sleeve.  With  the  sergeant  marched  eight 
corporals,  long-limbed,  rugged  giants  of  the 
color  company,  decorated  with  the  narrow 
stripe  and  double  chevron. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  cavalry  moved  out 
past  the  pickets,  then  swung  due  south. 

Night  had  fallen — a  clear,  starlit,  blossom- 
scented  dimness  freshening  the  air. 

The  Special  Messenger,  head  bent,  was  still 
riding  with  Captain  Stanley,  evidently  pre 
ferring  his  company  so  openly,  so  persist 
ently,  that  the  other  officers,  a  little  amused, 
looked  sideways  at  the  youngster  from  time 
to  time. 

After  a  while  Stanley  said  pleasantly: 
"  We  haven't  exchanged  names  yet,  and  you 
haven't  told  me  why  a  regular  is  riding  with 
us  to-night." 


Ever  After  253 

"On  special  service,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  your  name  and  regiment  ?  " 

She  did  not  appear  to  hear  him ;  he  glanced 
at  her  askance. 

"  You  seem  to  be  very  young,"  he  said. 

"  The  colonel  of  the  Ninetieth  Rhode  Island 
fell  at  twenty-two." 

He  nodded  gravely.  "  It  is  a  war  of  young 
men.  I  think  Baring  himself  is  only  twenty- 
five.  He's  breveted  brigadier,  too." 

"  And  you  ?  "  she  asked  timidly. 

He  laughed.  "  Thirty ;  and  a  thousand  in 
experience." 

"  I,  too,"  she  said  softly. 

"You?     Thirty?" 

"  No,  only  twenty-four;  but  your  peer  in 
experience." 

"  Your  voice  sounds  Southern,"  he  said  in 
his  pleasant  voice,  inviting  confidence. 

"  Yes ;  my  home  was  at  Sandy  River.'' 

Out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  she  saw  him 
start  and  look  around  at  her — felt  his  stern 
gaze  questioning  her ;  and  rode  straight  on  be 
fore  her  without  response  or  apparent  con 
sciousness. 

"  Sandy  River?"  he  repeated  in  a  strained 
voice.  "  Did  you  say  you  lived  there  ?  " 


254  Special  Messenger 

"  Yes,"  indifferently. 

The  captain  rode  for  a  while  in  silence, 
then,  carelessly :  "  There  was,  I  believe,  a  fam 
ily  living  there  before  the  war — the  West- 
cotes." 

"  Yes."  She  could  scarcely  utter  a  word 
for  the  suffocating-  throb  of  her  heart. 

"You  knew  them?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Do— do  they  still  live  at  Sandy  River  ?  " 

"  The  house  still  stands.  Major  Westcote 
is  dead." 

"  Her — I  mean  their  grandfather  ?  " 

She  nodded,  incapable  of  speech. 

"  And  " — he  hesitated — "  and  the  boy  ?  He 
used  to  ride  a  pony — the  most  fascinating 
little  fellow— 

"  He  is  at  school  in  the  North." 

There  was  a  silence,  then  the  captain  turned 
in  his  saddle  and  looked  straight  at  her. 

"  Does  Miss  Westcote  live  there  still  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  Celia  Westcote  ?  "  asked  the 
Messenger  calmly. 

"  Yes— Celia— "  His  voice  fell  softly,  mak 
ing  of  her  name  a  caressing  cadence.  The 
Special  Messenger  bent  her  head  lower  over 
her  bridle. 


Ever  After  255 

"Why  do  you  ask?    Did  you  know  her?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well  ?  " 

The  captain  lifted  his  grave  eyes,  but  the 
Messenger  was  not  looking  at  him. 

"  I  knew  her — in  a  way — better  than  I  ever 
knew  any  woman,  and  I  saw  her  only  three 
times  in  all  my  life.  That  is  your  answer — 
and  my  excuse  for  asking.  Does  she  still  live 
at  Sandy  River?  " 

"  No." 

"  Do  you  know  where  she  has  gone  ?  " 

"  She  is  somewhere  in  the  South." 

"Is  she — married?  "  he  asked  under  his 
breath. 

The  Special  Messenger  looked  up  at  him, 
smiling  in  the  darkness. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I  heard  that  she  lost 
her — heart — to  a  .bandmaster  of  some  cavalry 
regiment  who  was  killed  in  action  at  Sandy 
River — three  years  ago." 

The  captain  straightened  in  his  saddle  as 
though  he  had  been  shot;  in  the  dim  light 
his  lean  face  turned  darkly  scarlet. 

"  I  see  her  occasionally,"  continued  the 
Messenger  faintly ;  "  have  you  any  message — 
perhaps " 


256  Special  Messenger 

The  captain  turned  slowly  toward  her. 
"  Do  you  know  where  she  is  ?  " 

"  I  expect  that  she  will  be  within  riding 
distance  of  me — very  soon." 

"  Is  your  mission  a  secret  one?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  you  may  see  her — before  very  long?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  tell  her,"   said  the   captain,    "  that 
the   bandmaster    of   the    Fourth    Missouri — 
He  strove  to  continue ;  his  voice  died  in  his 
throat. 

"  Yes — yes — say  it,"  whispered  the  Special 
Messenger.  "  I  will  tell  her ;  she  will  under 
stand — truly  she  will — whatever  you  say." 

"  Tell  her — that  the  bandmaster  has — has 
never  forgotten 

"  Yes— yes " 

"  Never  forgotten  her !  " 

"  Yes— oh,  yes  !  " 

"That  he— he " 

"  Yes !  Oh,  please — please  say  it — don't  be 
afraid  to  say — what  you  wish !  " 

The  captain's  voice  was  not  under  perfect 
control. 

"  Say  that  he — thinks  of  her.  .  .  .  Say 
that — that  he — he  thought  of  her  when  he 


Ever  After  257 

was  falling — there,  in  the  charge  at  Sandy 
River " 

"  But  he  once  told  her  that  himself !  "  she 
cried.  "  Has  he  no  more  to  tell  her  ?  " 

And  Captain  Stanley,  aghast,  fairly  leaped 
in  his  stirrups. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  he  gasped.  "  What  do 
you  know  of " 

His  voice  was  smothered  in  the  sudden  out- 
crash  of  rifles,  through  which  startled  trum 
pets  sounded,  followed  by  the  running  explo 
sions  of  cavalry  carbines. 

"  Attention !  Draw  sabres !  "  rang  out  a 
far  voice  in  the  increasing  uproar. 

The  night  air  thrilled  with  the  rushing 
swish  of  steel  drawn  swiftly  across  steel. 

"  Forward !  "  and  "  Forward !  Forward !  " 
echoed  the  officers,  one  after  another. 

"  Steady — right  dress !  " — taken  up  by  the 
troop  officers :  "  Steady — right  dress !  By 
fours — right  wheel — march !  " 

Pell-mell  the  flanking  parties  came  crash 
ing  back  out  of  the  dusky  undergrowth, 
and: 

"  Steady — trot !  Steady — right  dress — gal 
lop  !  "  came  the  orders. 

"  Gallop !  "   repeated   her  captain,  blandly  ; 


258  Special  Messenger 

and,  under  his  breath :  "  We  are  going  to 
charge.  Quick,  tell  me  who  you  are !  " 

"  Steady — steady — charge !  "  came  the  clear 
shout  from  the  front. 

"  Charge !  Charge !  Charge !  "  echoed  the 
ringing  orders  from  troop  to  troop. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  thickets  she  rode  knee 
to  knee  with  her  captain.  The  grand  stride  of 
her  horse  thundering  along  beside  his  through 
obscurity  filled  her  with  wild  exultation ;  she 
loosened  curb  and  snaffle  and  spurred  for 
ward  amid  hundreds  of  plunging  horses,  now 
goaded  frantic  by  the  battle  clangor  of  the 
trumpets. 

Everywhere,  right  and  left,  the  red  flash  of 
Confederate  rifles  ran  along  their  flanks ;  here 
and  there  a  stricken  horse  reared  or  stumbled, 
rolling  over  and  over;  or  some  bullet-struck 
rider  swayed  wide  from  the  saddle  and  went 
down  to  annihilation. 

Fringed  with  darting  flames  the  cavalry 
drove  on  headlong  into  the  unseen ;  behind 
clanked  the  flying  battery,  mounted  gunners 
sabering  the  dark  forms  that  leaped  out  of  the 
underbrush  ;  on — on — rushed  horses  and  guns, 
riders  and  cannoneers — a  furious,  irresistible, 
chaotic  torrent,  thundering  through  the  night. 


•5 
"'Yes,'  she   gasped,    'the    Special    Messenger — noncombatant ! '" 


Ever  After  259 

Far  behind  them  now  danced  and  flickered 
the  rifle  flames ;  fainter,  fainter  grew  the 
shots ;  and  at  last,  galloping  steadily  and,  by 
degrees,  reforming  as  they  rode,  the  column 
swung  out  toward  the  bushy  hills  in  the  west, 
slowed  to  a  canter,  to  a  trot,  to  a  walk. 

"  We  are  through !  "  said  the  Special  Mes 
senger,  brokenly,  breathing  fast  as  she  pulled 
in  her  mount  and  turned  in  the  starlight 
toward  the  man  she  rode  beside. 

At  the  same  moment  the  column  halted ; 
and  he  drew  bridle  and  looked  steadily  at  her. 

All  around  them  was  the  confusion  and  tur 
moil  of  stamping,  panting  horses,  the  clank 
of  metal,  the  heavy  breathing  of  men. 

"  Look  at  me !  "  she  whispered,  baring  her 
head  in  the  starlight.  "  Quick !  Look  at  me ! 
Do  you  know  me  now?  Look  at  me — if  you 
— love  me !  " 

A  low  cry  broke  from  him;  she  held  out 
both  arms  to  him  in  the  dim  light,  forcing 
her  horse  up  against  his  stirrup. 

"  If  you  love  me,"  she  breathed,  "  say  so 
now !  " 

Leaning  free  from  his  saddle  he  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  held  her,  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"You?" 
18 


260  Special  Messenger 

"  Yes,"  she  gasped,  "  the  Special  Messen 
ger — noncombatant !  " 

"The  Special  Messenger?  You?  Good 
God !  " 

A  dull  tattoo  of  hoofs  along  the  halted 
column,  nearer,  nearer,  clattering  toward 
them  from  the  front,  and: 

"  Good-by !  "  she  sobbed ;  "  they're  coming 
for  me!  Oh — do  you  love  me?  Do  you? 
Life  was  so  dark  and  dreadful  without  you! 
I — I  never  forgot — never,  never !  I — 

Her  gloved  hands  crept  higher  around  the 
neck  of  the  man  who  held  her  crushed  in 
his  arms. 

"  If  I  return,"  she  sighed,  "  will  you  love 
me?  Don't — don't  look  at  me  that  way.  I 
will  return — I  promise.  I  love  you  so!  I 
love  you !  " 

Their  lips  clung  for  a  second  in  the  dark 
ness,  then  she  swung  her  horse,  tearing  her 
self  free  of  his  arms ;  and,  bared  head  lifted 
to  the  skies,  she  turned  south,  riding  all  alone 
out  into  the  starlit  waste. 

(i) 

THE   END 


OTHER  BOOKS 
BY 

ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

Mr.  Chambers  is  unquestionably  the  most 
popular  of  American  novelists  to-day.  He  is 
the  author  of  some  thirty  books  of  extraordi 
nary  variety  in  fiction.  He  was  born  in  New 
York,  and  studied  in  the  studios  of  Paris  to 
become  an  artist.  While  working  at  painting 
he  took  up  writing  as  a  pastime,  and  had  such 
immediate  success  that  he  soon  gave  up  art 
and  turned  to  literature  as  his  life  work.  Al 
ways,  as  a  part  of  this  interest,  he  has  studied 
and  worked  in  the  field  of  natural  history,  so 
that  to-day  he  is  something  of  an  authority  on 
birds  and  butterflies,  a  confirmed  fisherman, 
and  a  good  shot.  All  these  qualities — the 
study  of  art,  the  experience  with  nature,  both 
in  the  line  of  sport  and  as  an  entomologist — 
[i] 


Other  Books  by  Robert  W-  Chambers 

have  put  their  stamp  upon  his  work,  as  will 
be  seen  by  a  glance  at  his  books,  for  only  a 
few  of  which  there  is  space  here  available. 


THE  FIRING  LINE 

The  most  recent  of  his  works  is  the  third 
in  a  group  of  studies  in  American  society 
life.  It  is  full  of  the  swing  of  good  romance, 
behind  which  lies  the  bright  philosophy  that 
the  saving  quality  in  our  American  fami 
lies  is  to  come  with  the  injection  of  fresh 
blood  into  each  new  generation.  The  story 
itself  deals  with  the  adopted  daughter  of  a 
multimillionaire,  who  does  not  even  know 
her  own  parentage — a  girl  from  nowhere, 
with  all  the  charm  and  beauty  which  a  bring 
ing  up  in  the  midst  of  wealth  can  give  her. 
The  hero  is  a  young  American  of  good  fam 
ily  who  first  meets  her  at  Palm  Beach,  Florida. 
Here  is  a  background  that  Mr.  Chambers 
loves — the  outdoor  life  of  exotic  Florida,  the 
everglades,  the  hunting,  the  shooting,  and  the 
sea — all  in  the  midst  of  that  other  exotic  life 
which  goes  with  a  winter  resort  and  a  large 
group  of  the  idle  rich.  The  story — already  in 

[2] 


Other  Books  by  Robert  W.  Chambers 

its  isoth  thousand — is,  perhaps,  the  author's 
favorite  piece  of  work. 


THE  YOUNGER  SET 

is  also  of  the  social  comedie  humaine  of 
America,  with  its  scenes  laid  in  New  York  and 
on  Long  Island.  Here  again,  behind  a  ro 
mance  of  love  and  of  society  complications,  Mr. 
Chambers  conceals  his  philosophic  suggestions 
that  may  be  gathered  from  the  title.  The 
younger  set  comes  into  our  society  fresh  and 
unspoiled  with  each  generation,  and  in  its  way 
contributes  something  of  freshness,  something 
of  vigor  to  keep  the  social  world  from  going 
down  hill  on  a  grade  of  decadence.  The  story 
deals  with  a  man  who,  although  still  young, 
feels  that  his  life  is  practically  over  because 
his  marriage,  through  no  fault  of  his  own,  has 
proved  a  failure  and  ended  in  divorce.  He 
meets  a  young  girl  just  introduced  into  society, 
whose  wholesome  youth  charms  him  and  leads 
him  back  to  optimism  and  life.  The  character 
of  Eileen  is  perhaps  one  of  Mr.  Chambers's 
most  real  and  most  successful  creations.  The 
fact  that  this  novel,  after  one  year,  is  in  its 
[3] 


Other  Books  by  Robert  W-  Chambers 

2OOth  thousand  is  sufficient  proof  of  its  popu 
larity.    In 


THE  FIGHTING  CHANCE 

the  author  still  deals  with  American  so 
ciety,  but  here  his  background  is  the  consid 
eration  of  the  evil  influences  of  inheritance 
in  old  families.  The  scene  is  still  New  York 
and  Long  Island,  full  of  the  charm  of  outdoor 
life  and  hunting  episodes.  The  principal  male 
character  Siivard  is  cursed  with  the  inheri 
tance  of  drink.  Siward's  struggles  to  conquer 
his  Enemy,  and  the  fighting  chance  he  sees 
at  last  in  the  affection  of  a  girl,  carry  on  the 
story  to  a  hopeful  finish.  The  novel  has  been 
published  two  years  and  a  few  months  and 
more  than  250,000  copies  have  been  sold,  so 
that  its  claims  to  success  are  undeniable. 


THE   RECKONING 

The   varied   interests   of  the   author   which 
have  been  suggested  above  are  sustained  in 
U] 


Other  Books  by  Robert  W-  Chambers 

this  novel.  It  is  a  story  of  a  side  light  of  the 
American  Revolution,  and  it  makes  the  fourth 
novel  in  a  series  of  books  telling  in  fiction  of 
the  scenes  and  invoking  the  characters  in  the 
Mohawk  Valley  during  the  war  for  American 
Independence.  The  first  novel  of  the  series 
was  "  Cardigan  " ;  the  second,  "  The  Maid-at- 
Arms  " ;  the  third  is  still  to  be  written,  when 
the  distinguished  author  can  find  time;  while 
"  The  Reckoning  "  is  the  last. 


IOLE 

Another  splendid  example  of  the  author's 
versatility  is  this  farcical,  humorous  satire  on 
the  art  nouveau  of  to-day.  Mr.  Chambers, 
with  all  his  knowledge  of  the  artistic  jargon, 
has  in  this  little  novel  created  a  pious  fraud 
of  a  father,  who  brings  up  his  eight  lovely 
daughters  in  the  Adirondacks,  where  they 
wear  pink  pajamas  and  eat  nuts  and  fruit, 
and  listen  to  him  while  he  lectures  them  and 
everybody  else  on  art.  It  is  easy  to  imagine 
what  happens  when  several  rich  and  practical 
young  New  Yorkers  stumble  upon  this  group. 
Everybody  is  happy  in  the  end. 
[5] 


Other  Books  by  Robert  W>  Chambers 


THE  TRACER  OF  LOST  PERSONS 

Here  again  is  a  totally  different  vein  of  half 
humor  and  half  seriousness.  Mr.  Chambers 
selects  a  firm  of  detectives  (based,  by  the  way, 
on  fact)  who  guarantee  to  find  lost  persons, 
missing  heirs,  etc.  In  this  case  the  author's 
fancy  and  humor  suggest  to  a  young  bachelor, 
who  has  always  had  an  ideal  girl  in  mind,  that 
he  go  and  describe  her  as  a  real  person  to  Mr. 
Keen,  the  Tracer  of  Lost  Persons.  He  gives 
his  description,  and,  as  may  be  supposed,  Mr. 
Keen  finds  the  girl,  but  after  such  a  series  of 
episodes,  escapes,  discoveries  and  denoue 
ments  that  it  takes  a  full-grown  novel  to  ac 
complish  the  task. 


THE  TREE  OF  HEAVEN 

Half  in  fancy,  half  in  fact,  the  thread  of  an 
occult  idea  runs  through  this  weird  theme. 
You  cannot,  even  at  the  end,  be  quite  sure 
whether  the  author  has  been  making  fun  of 
you  or  not.  Perhaps,  if  the  truth  were  told, 
he  could  not  quite  tell  you  himself.  The  tale 
[6] 


Otlier  Books  by  Robert  W-  Chambers 

all  hangs  about  one  of  a  group  of  friends  who 
lives  for  years  in  the  Far  East  and  gathers 
some  of  the  occult  knowledge  of  that  far-off 
land.  Into  the  woof  of  an  Eastern  rug  is 
woven  the  soul  of  a  woman.  Into  the  glisten 
of  a  scarab  is  polished  the  prophecy  of  a  life. 
Into  the  whole  charming  romance  of  the  book 
is  woven  the  thread  of  an  intangible,  "creepy," 
mysterious  force.  What  is  it  ?  Is  it  a  joke  ? 
Who  knows? 


SOME  LADIES  IN  HASTE 

This  novel  is  as  widely  different  from  all 
the  others  as  if  another  hand  had  written  it 
and  another  mind  conceived  it.  This  time,  too, 
it  is  impossible  to  say  whether  the  author  is 
quizzing  our  new  thought  transference  and  tele 
pathic  friends,  or  whether  he  is  half  inclined 
to  suggest  that  "  there  may  be  something  in 
it."  Here  is  a  character  who  suddenly  discov 
ers  that  by  concentrating  his  mind  on  certain 
ideas  he  can  inject  or  project  them  into  others. 
And  forthwith  he  sets  half  a  dozen  couples 
making  love  to  each  other  in  most  grotesque 
surroundings.  They  climb  trees  and  become 
[7] 


Other  Books  by  Robert  W>  Chambers 

engaged.  They  put  on  strange  Panlike  cos 
tumes  and  prance  about  the  woods — always 
charming,  always  well  bred,  always  with  a 
touch  of  romance  that  makes  the  reader  read 
on  to  the  end  and  finally  lay  the  book  down 
with  a  smile  of  pleasure  and  a  little  sigh  that 
it  is  over  so  soon. 

One  might  run  on  for  twenty  books  more, 
but  there  is  not  space  enough  even  to  mention 
Mr.  Chambers's  delightful  nature  books  for 
children,  telling  how  Geraldine  and  Peter  go 
wandering  through  "  Outdoorland,"  "  Moun 
tain-Land,"  "  Orchard-Land,"  "  River-Land," 
"  Forest-Land,"  and  "  Garden-Land."  They, 
in  turn,  are  as  different  from  his  novels  in 
fancy  and  conception  as  each  of  his  novels 
from  the  other.  No  living  writer  has  given  to 
the  public  so  varied  a  list  of  books  with  such 
extraordinary  popularity  in  all  of  them  as  Mr. 
Robert  W.  Chambers. 


[8] 


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